


Sightless Bird

by WoodlandGoddess1



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blind Kallus, Drunk Blow Jobs, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Flashbacks, Force-Sensitive Lasats, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Imprisonment, M/M, POV Alternating, Referenced Homelessness, References to Genocide, Scars, Torture, Trauma, force-sensitive Kallus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:35:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 30
Words: 148,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25770700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WoodlandGoddess1/pseuds/WoodlandGoddess1
Summary: It was done.The warning, incomplete as it was, was sent.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Eli Vanto
Comments: 433
Kudos: 472





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to wait a while longer before posting the first chapter, but I've realised I don't have the willpower to do that. Lol.
> 
> It diverges from canon during Zero Hour, so there will be familiar scenes and dialogue in the first few chapters.
> 
> This fic began as a project for Camp Nano, but has surpassed the target I had. I've had a great time working on this fic, and will continue to do so, and I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it!
> 
> Feel free to let me know!

_Alexsandr didn't know where he was. He froze in the street. His heart thumped in his chest as he tried to find something familiar, staring through the fleeting gaps as people bustled around him without pausing to even glance at him. One moment bled into another, but his Mama and Papa were nowhere to be seen. Mila was nowhere to be seen. His breath quickened. His fingers curled around the cuffs of his sleeves as his vision blurred. Alexsandr tried to ignore the growing sting, knowing his Papa wouldn't be happy; he didn't like tears._

_Alexsandr almost jumped out of his skin when something touched the back of his head and he whirled around to see a huge pair of legs that seemed to stretch forever. He craned his neck to see a pair of shining, round green eyes staring down at him in concern from a face covered in blue and silver fur. Alexsandr sniffled and dragged his curled fist across his face._

_"Little one," the mountain said quietly, her voice warm and soothing, "are you lost?"_

_Alexsandr nodded sharply, unable to speak._

_"Well. Let's see if we can't fix that." The mountain smiled kindly, her large ears twitching noticeably, and Alexsandr found himself staring, mesmerised. He'd never seen ears like those before. Alexsandr continued to stare as huge hands picked him up easily, like he was nothing, and deposited him on her shoulders. "See anyone you know?"_

_Alexsandr released a breath as he realised he was no longer trapped amid a sea of bustling people. He could see over the heads of everybody. Squinting, Alexsandr looked around quickly, searching for a familiar waterfall of hair, hoping to find his Mama or Mila before his Papa noticed he was missing._

_But he wasn't that lucky._

_He never was._

_"ALEXSANDR," his Papa roared —_

Fulcrum Agent Alexsandr Kallus woke with an unvoiced shout of distress lodged in his throat. His fingers clawed at his neck with ferocity, as though he could clear the blockage with his nails. His gaze roved wildly, searching for something, _anything_ , to tether him to the present moment and keep him from slipping back into the past. Back into memories of his childhood. He latched onto a familiar glow, focusing on its warmth and soft light as a bead of cold sweat slid down the side of his face and disappeared into his ear. Several moments passed before the blockage in his throat eased and Alexsandr could draw in a shaking breath.

Slowly, Alexsandr sat up and reached for the meteorite resting on the shelf over his bunk. He cradled it close and stared down at it intensely, hating himself for how quick he'd come to need its presence during moments like these. Hating himself for the ever-present wish to be back on that accursed moon with his… _something_. Alexsandr didn't have the words to describe what Garazeb Orrelios was to him now and he hated it.

He hated that none of the words in his current arsenal seemed right.

A small part of him wondered if Garazeb was having such difficulty, but he knew it didn't matter. He'd never find out. He'd never leave the Capital Complex alive. He knew that much when he'd sent Bridger away, refusing to take the extraction offered to him as he'd foisted the blame for his treason on an eager, trusting, young officer that just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Guilt gnawed at him.

Alexsandr was living on borrowed time. But it wouldn't be wasted.

Eventually, Alexsandr returned the meteorite to its place of honour and rose from the bunk carefully, his leg protesting. He rubbed his thigh almost absently, familiar now with the various aches and pains that lingered after breaking his leg and treating it as well as he could in private. It wasn't as though he could have risked going to the medbay, not when his injuries would make it clear that he'd lied on the report he'd submitted once he'd returned to his post. Alexsandr couldn't afford to draw their suspicion.

After dressing reluctantly, Alexsandr took a seat at his personal desk and began his routine cleaning and oiling of his bo-rifle, the action familiar and comforting. He often woke too early, and so he dedicated these quiet moments to the maintenance of his treasured weapon. More so now than ever. Another moment in the solitude of his quarters was another moment that he didn't have to face Grand Admiral Thrawn and his other superiors, another moment that he didn't have to lie through his teeth and pretend that his skin didn't crawl in their presence. That his stomach didn't tie itself into knots whenever a difficult decision came along, pitting his renewed sense of morals against his need to do whatever it took to keep his status as a rebel operative a secret. 

Alexsandr did what he had to.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.

Alexsandr sighed as he set his tools aside when he'd finished and held his bo-rifle for a long moment. Too easily, he could remember a time when it was heavy, weighing him down like a large anvil strapped to his arms. It had surprised him when he'd first taken it in hand. But the guardsman he'd faced on Lasan...he'd born an expression so profound and so knowing, as though it wasn't the weapon weighing him down but something else, something Alexsandr didn't understand. Couldn't hope to understand. Not when —

Alexsandr ripped his attention away, dislodging the memories before he could be overwhelmed. His grip tightened around his bo-rifle. It didn't weigh him down now. It belonged in his grasp, and moved with him as though it were an extension of his own body, responding to his will in a manner that almost unnerved him at times. Sometimes the weapon felt alive in his grasp, as though it wasn't just a composition of metals and electricity, but something more. Alexsandr doubted he'd ever discover the reason for it.

It wasn't as though he could ask a Lasat.

_And whose fault is that?_

Alexsandr ignored the angry, rumbling growl that rose at the back of his mind. It wasn't the first time he'd heard it speak. He used to hear it when he was younger, throughout his training at the Royal Academy, and later when he was selected for a training programme at the ISB, but it had grown so faint since then. The voice had almost disappeared. Until Garazeb brought it roaring back to life when he'd hauled him out of that damned escape pod and aimed his bo-rifle straight at his head before lowering it furiously, snapping that he'd rather see him heal. That he'd rather defeat him fair and square than kill a wounded man in cold blood. Alexsandr hadn't anticipated a show of such honour and dignity, not when so much rage and bloodshed stained their shared past.

Not when Imperials wouldn't be as generous.

That had been the first nail in his coffin.

He'd known his life would never be the same as he'd watched Garazeb leave the next morning, flurries of snow almost obscuring him and his crew from view. But he'd seen the outpouring of joy, of warm relief. He'd watched as Garazeb was engulfed with affection. He'd wrapped his arms around himself and clutched at the sleeve of his uniform — where the heat from their huddling still lingered. And he'd known that he'd made a mistake when he declined the chance Garazeb offered him. 

A bitter chuckle escaped Alexsandr.

His life was nothing but one mistake after another.

Alexsandr shook his head and set his bo-rifle on the desk before rising and ensuring that all the things he'd need throughout his shift were clipped to his belt or stowed deep in his pockets, where no one could spot them. It wouldn't do to get caught with his metaphorical trousers down. Alexsandr checked his reflection in the mirror over the sink before squaring his shoulders and donning his usual mask of cold confidence, which would keep underlings from getting too close.

No one wanted to piss off an ISB agent. 

Well. No one that wasn't a rebel.

Alexsandr refrained from smiling, but couldn't stop a miniscule blossom of warmth from growing behind his sternum as he vacated his quarters to begin his routine patrol of the complex. A certain band of rebels had a penchant for pissing off the ISB, and him especially, and a grudging respect for the group had developed long before he and Garazeb crashed on that frostbitten moon.

His respect and admiration had grown since then.

Really, it couldn't be helped.

Not when the _Ghost_ crew took such vindictive pleasure from making his life difficult.

Not when Ahsoka Tano had walked straight into a cantina at the heart of an Imperial-controlled city, and sat opposite him without speaking a word. The hood of her cloak hadn't stopped her penetrating gaze from seeing deep into his soul as Alexsandr tried to drown the beginnings of his existential crisis at the bottom of a bottle. Not when she'd reached for the bottle without hesitation and took a long swig, still staring, as though challenging him to speak out and draw attention to her unexpected and illicit appearance.

His face warm with drink and his heart heavy, Alexsandr hadn't been able to stop himself from snapping quietly, "Get fucked."

Tano had surprised him with a warm laugh. Her gaze twinkling with humour, she'd leaned forward as she slid the bottle across the table. Doing so had brought her too close for comfort. Slowly, her gaze had turned serious before Tano said gently, but firmly, "You've come to a fork in the road. You have a choice to make."

Alexsandr pushed the recollection aside after a moment and strode briskly, his gloved hands clasped behind his back as usual. The small mouse droid he'd repurposed joined him a few corridors later, following at a safe distance. He didn't acknowledge it in the slightest and it didn't acknowledge him. But it followed him through the complex and tapped into passing comm frequencies to record information at his behest. Alexsandr would have the arduous task of listening to the recordings later and sifting through copious amounts of nonsense to find useful nuggets that could be passed on to the rebels in the evening, once he'd assured himself that he wasn't being followed.

His shift was long, quiet and boring, with little of consequence arising to break the relentless tedium. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence and hadn't been since he'd arrived in the sector. Most of his time was spent sifting through and correlating endless reams of data — even before he'd become a Fulcrum Agent and started using his skills to help bring the Empire down from within its own ranks — to find the breadcrumbs that would lead him to his next mission and his next hunt. 

As soon as he finished patrolling, Alexsandr headed to the data centre, which had become an important part of his routine since he'd first arrived on Lothal. His mouse droid disappeared into the nearest micro-corridor, preparing to begin its own data retrieval from one of the micro-ports. Alexsandr wasn't worried about its activity; he'd programmed the droid to be better at hiding its tracks than even the best data controller the Empire could have in its arsenal.

How fortunate that he'd cultivated such a strong understanding of droids and their inner workings back when he was a boy, tinkering with wires and components within the heated confines of his blanket. Ignoring the sweat that curled his hair and his growing thirst as it grew hotter under the blanket with each passing minute. Shoving burnt fingertips into his mouth whenever the wires sparked in his grasp. Pretending to be asleep when heavy, familiar footsteps approached his door, hoping the silence would keep his father from coming in and checking on him. How fortunate that he hadn't let his father and his hatred for droids deter him from exploring his interests even in secret. 

More importantly, he'd had Mila. Who'd slipped him a new tool or some new components under the table with a small smile and a wink now and then. Who'd distracted their father long enough to give Alexsandr a chance to hide his things on many, many occasions. Who'd asked him about his projects and listened as Alexsandr babbled excitedly, almost tripping over his words in his haste to tell her about his latest experiment. Who'd enveloped him within warm and loving arms and promised him that one day, someday, he'd be able to devote as much time to building droids as he'd like and that she'd support him — no matter what.

How wrong she'd been.

Alexsandr quashed the bitter smile that threatened to curl his lips and ignored the ache behind his sternum. He refrained from shaking his head. He gave no indication that he'd been thinking of something other than work as he settled himself at one of the vacant stations and began the long, arduous task of combing through data to correlate and compile enough information to keep his superiors satisfied and without suspicion. It wasn't easy, giving them enough information while withholding just enough to keep rebel operatives and potential defectors safe without giving himself away; it was almost impossible. _Almost_. Alexsandr wouldn't be half as capable without over a decade of experience in sniffing out defectors, traitors, informants, and spies over the course of his career with the ISB. He knew what to look for, and what to avoid. It gave him a distinct edge over others who'd passed information to the rebellion in the past.

Alexsandr would have been almost confident in his position as a rebel informant and spy, were it not for Grand Admiral Thrawn and his cold, calculating stare. The Chiss was, perhaps, the smartest officer he'd encountered throughout his career and some of the finest minds had trained Alexsandr at the Royal Academy; the prospect that Thrawn was smarter and sharper than those minds combined terrified him. It fuelled his nightmares at times. He'd lost count of how often he'd woken up shaking, drenched in cold sweat as that red gaze haunted him mercilessly, cold and knowing, dragging all of his fear and dread to the surface with ease.

Not even his meteorite could calm him in such instances.

Fortunately, Alexsandr hadn't been subjected to his presence in a while.

Hours passed this way, with Alexsandr buried up to his forehead in data that would be too overwhelming to the untrained and undisciplined. It might have been tedious and boring, but it was still a relief to know that spending hours hunting information spared him from having to hunt and sometimes harm his own allies in the streets to maintain his position. This was safer — for all of them.

And it was far less stressful.

Alexsandr didn't need more stress in his life — he still hadn't recovered from the violent palpitations that set in when Bridger was dragged aboard the _Relentless_ , convinced that no one would recognise him because he'd cut his hair and changed his clothes. He'd endangered them both in the same sweep. The temptation to throw the idiot out an airlock had been almost overwhelming, but the mere thought of how Garazeb would react had been like a bucket of frostbitten water dumped over his head. He'd cursed himself for being a fool under his breath. He'd cursed Bridger, and he'd cursed Garazeb, and then he'd done his best to keep Bridger safe.

Thankfully, Alexsandr hadn't seen Bridger in a while either. He wasn't certain he'd be able to maintain his composure the next time he was faced with such a reckless padawan. How Bridger and the _Ghost_ crew managed to remain alive for so long baffled him entirely, and Alexsandr had to hope that the rest of the Rebel Alliance wasn't as daring, reckless, and stupid as the crew he'd hunted for so long, the crew to which he'd devoted so much wasted time.

Alexsandr didn't leave his station until late in the afternoon. It wouldn't be long now until the sun started setting, leaving the land in shadow. It would be easier to slip out of sight then. It would be easier to blend into the shadows. He supposed that was one benefit of wearing Imperial black. He stretched his back almost imperceptibly, unwilling to show weakness in front of other Imperial officers. He logged out before heading away, not sparing a single glance for the other officers still hard at work. His mouse droid met him in the corridor and whirred at him seriously, leaving Alexsandr with a cold knot of dread in his stomach.

Grand Admiral Thrawn had just given his clearance codes to get past the Imperial blockade and his shuttle would be landing at the complex soon. Far too soon for comfort. Alexsandr had a few minutes to get himself and his mouse droid down to the hangar, where Governor Pryce and Admiral Konstantine would welcome Thrawn and his small retinue of Death Troopers.

Alexsandr just reached the upper level when the shuttle swept into the hangar smoothly, settling with practiced ease. An audible hiss escaped as the engine was shut down and allowed to cool. Fortunately, his mouse droid was faster than him — it had reached the lower level already, having used the micro-corridors to sweep past entire segments of the complex. It was ready, and waiting, concealed behind a crate as the shuttle lowered its ramp and revealed Thrawn.

"Governor Pryce," Thrawn said firmly, but coldly, his voice as slick as blaster oil. He didn't project his voice...but he didn't need to. No one dared to speak in his presence unless spoken to. Alexsandr could just hear his voice over the sound of stormtroopers walking to and fro, their grip on their weapons relaxed. "I bring urgent news."

"Of course. Right this way," Pryce answered. Unlike the Chiss, she wasn't quiet. Her voice carried so easily, inflated as it was with her own self-importance. Her ego occupied most of the space in the hangar. Honestly, Alexsandr had never liked her, not even when he'd been an efficient cog in the Imperial machine.

But none of that mattered now as he watched Pryce and Konstantine turn on their heels and lead Thrawn away, their strides long and purposeful. Alexsandr directed his mouse droid to follow them closely, instructing it to slip into the nearest micro-corridor to remain unseen. It followed them to a secure briefing room. His mouse droid started recording as soon as the door slid shut. Alexsandr didn't hesitate to connect his private comm to the droid's frequency, knowing he'd need to hear the meeting in real time.

"Is all this secrecy truly necessary, Grand Admiral?"

That was Konstantine. One of the most incompetent officers in the Imperial Navy; how he managed to achieve such a high rank was a mystery, though Alexsandr suspected nepotism and other means of favouritism.

"We still have a traitor in our midst." Thrawn spoke calmly, his voice never slipping from that slick and even tone. Hearing that voice speak straight into his ear sent a shudder through Alexsandr, who couldn't help but be reminded of his nightmares. But he ignored his own discomfort. It didn't matter as Thrawn continued speaking. "We need to be highly cautious about what we discuss and where we speak. And what I'm about to say _cannot_ fall into the rebels' hands."

Alexsandr frowned as a few computerised sounds travelled through the comm. His heart threatened to punch a hole through his chest as another voice spoke a moment later, familiar and discomfiting. It had to be serious, if Governor Tarkin was being included in the briefing. 

"Admiral Thrawn, I trust the information you have for me was worth the wait."

"The rebels of the so-called _Phoenix Squadron_ are about to launch a major military strike against the Empire."

The shock in the room was palpable as Tarkin snapped sharply, "They wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, believe me, they would." Thrawn spoke with a quiet confidence that few others could match.

Alexsandr knew and understood the _Ghost_ crew enough to know the Chiss wasn't exaggerating; if the other members of the _Phoenix Squadron_ were anything like Garazeb Orrelios, there was nothing too dangerous for them to consider. Not when it would mean delivering a crippling blow to the Empire. Alexsandr listened closely, his attention focused on Thrawn.

"Everything leading up to this moment has been rehearsal. The real performance is about to begin. I'm counting on it."

"You have my attention." It was clear to Alexsandr that Tarkin wasn't without a shred of uncertainty, but the elder man masked it well. "What target will the rebels attack?"

"I believe they're about to strike our most important facility in the region: the TIE defender factory right here on Lothal. My spies report General Dodonna's fleet is en route to reinforce Commander Sato and Captain Syndulla."

Alexsandr gripped the railing in front of him as those words ricocheted through his mind over and over, leaving his face slack with shock and a modicum of fear. Spies. There were spies passing information to Thrawn from within the rebellion itself. Dodonna's fleet was compromised. Their plans were compromised. His bones strained against their limits as his grip continued to tighten. Alexsandr inhaled raggedly, knowing he had to get word to Garazeb, to the _Phoenix Squadron_ , before it was too late.

But he had to learn as much as he could first.

"Where is this fleet massing?"

"I have yet to uncover its precise location."

"A coordinated attack by multiple rebel cells," Pryce said slowly, unable to conceal her worry, "is unprecedented."

"And it's exactly this moment I've been waiting for to wipe them out."

"I want you to capture their leadership," Tarkin ordered crisply, his doubt scrubbed from his voice entirely, leaving his words sharp and dangerous.

"In such a battle, it may not be possible to take prisoners."

"Ah, but a man of your talents will manage." Tarkin left no room for disobedience. "If we are to crush this rebellion, we must make examples of its leaders."

"As you wish, Governor Tarkin." 

Another computerised sound signified the end of the briefing, the digital projection of Governor Tarkin vanishing. 

Tarkin wasn't wrong, Alexsandr knew. The quickest means of ensuring the spark of hope that fuelled the rebellion would be extinguished would be to execute the leaders publicly, mercilessly, leaving the might of the Empire and the length of its reach unquestioned. The mere thought turned his stomach. Alexsandr forced himself to take a slow, even breath.

It wasn't over.

That spark wasn't gone.

Alexsandr still had time — though precious little of it — to make things right. To warn the _Phoenix Squadron_ of the spies funnelling information from the alliance and straight into Thrawn's hands. To warn them of the trap waiting for them. Pouring through the data his mouse droid had recorded earlier would have to wait: this information was far more important. Quickly, Alexsandr instructed his mouse droid to find a spot out of the way, to conceal itself and wait until he came to collect it. 

Forcing himself to release the railing, Alexsandr left the hangar. He didn't run. He didn't break into a cold sweat. He didn't shake. His hands didn't clench and unclench at his sides. He didn't allow even a scrap of his true feelings to breach the mask he forced himself to wear as he moved through the complex. His shift wasn't over. He couldn't leave now — it would just make him look suspicious.

Alexsandr did what he did best: he focused on his usual routine, on what his colleagues would expect of him since he'd arrived in the sector. Doing so grounded him. It gave him something to focus on instead of the worry, the dread that he'd be too late. It kept his hands steady, and his heartbeat even. Alexsandr spent the last hour of his shift moving through the complex and questioning various stormtroopers and officers, grilling them about their shifts that day, whether unusual activities had been noted.

No one hedged.

No one suspected him of having ulterior motives.

And it was a relief to note that no one had noticed unusual behaviour or activities throughout their shifts. Alexsandr wasn't sure he could cope with having to deal with rebel infiltrators on top of what he'd learned from the briefing. 

As the end of his shift drew closer, Alexsandr headed towards his quarters. He removed what he didn't need from his belt and pockets and stored them away, locking them behind the most obscure passcode he could think of. He attached a moderate clip of credits to his belt and headed away, following his usual path to the exit.

Those who saw him leaving would assume he planned to visit one of the various cantinas in the city, either to relax over a drink or to follow a hunch on his own time. It wouldn't be unusual for him. Alexsandr had done so often enough since he'd arrived on Lothal that it wouldn't be questioned.

Still...he was cautious.

Alexsandr didn't take a direct path to his destination. He traversed through various streets, pausing to peruse the market stalls that hadn't finished closing up, ignoring the frustrated and impatient glances the merchants tried to hide behind nervous smiles. He purchased a small sampling of confectionery, instructed the merchant to keep the change and went on his way, popping one of his acquisitioned treats into his mouth with an air of nonchalance. Doing so wasn't unusual. Even Colonel Yularen could vouch for his sweet tooth — one he liked to indulge now and then. Alexsandr remained alert at all times, casting searching glances into shadows, and using reflective surfaces to check for tails.

Alexsandr didn't head to the abandoned tower until he was certain he wasn't being followed. His heart started pounding as he slipped through the doorway, searching the interior for even the slightest evidence that his position was compromised. But nothing had been touched. Dust still covered the various surfaces thickly, and his transmitter remained where he'd left it.

A small sigh of relief escaped him.

Alexsandr didn't hesitate to take a seat at the transmitter, his hands working on autopilot. It wasn't long until the familiar emblem of the Fulcrum division floated above the transmitter, white and ghostly, reminding him that he wasn't alone in this fight to bring down the Empire. There was an entire rebellion behind him. There were more Fulcrum Agents than himself and the late Ahsoka Tano. Alexsandr was but one voice in a sea of whispers, but all it took was one voice to make a difference.

"This is Fulcrum with an urgent message," Alexsandr said quickly, knowing the transmitter would edit his voice. It would leave him unidentifiable except to those who knew, to the _Ghost_ crew and to General Draven — his commanding officer. A man he'd never met. A man he'd never recognise in a line-up of suspects. A man Ahsoka Tano trusted implicitly, and who she'd encouraged him to trust with his identity, his life. Just as the Rebel Alliance trusted him in return. "Thrawn knows about —"

Alexsandr cut himself off as the emblem turned a dark red. He'd lost the signal. A cold knot of dread formed in the pit of his stomach as he scrambled to get it back. He ignored the faint tremor plaguing his hands as he flipped several switches and twisted the required dials, searching for the signal he'd lost.

But nothing seemed to work.

His heart jumped into his throat as he heard a cold voice say, "By the light of Lothal's moons." 

His attention snapped over to the doorway, where Thrawn stood silhouetted against a darkening sky, his head tipped forward with cruel intent. But the Grand Admiral stood almost casually, his hands clasped behind his back.

"That is your code phrase, isn't it, Agent Kallus?" Slowly, Thrawn stepped across the threshold. His attention remained fixed on Alexsandr, pinning him in place. Something almost smug curled his lips. "Or would you prefer I address you as Fulcrum?"

Alexsandr said nothing, his hands gripping the arms of his chair tight. He stared up at Thrawn as the Grand Admiral loomed over him. He didn't bother to stop his loathing from twisting his features. What would be the point in doing so, after all. He'd been caught red-handed.

"I'm afraid your rebel friends won't receive your warning," Thrawn said quietly, his red gaze glittering as he drew one of his hands from behind his back to reveal a comm scrambler, the screen of which showed the Fulcrum emblem. The emblem vibrated wildly, the image blurring and distorting, proving that his message would never reach the rebellion.

The fleet would be caught off-guard, its members annihilated and its officers captured.

That spark of hope would be extinguished.

An image of charred fur flashed across his mind and something twisted inside Alexsandr violently, cruel and painful. A defiant roar escaped him. He was out of his chair instantly, throwing himself at Thrawn without mercy, his steps light and his fists rapid.

But Thrawn wasn't fazed. 

Thrawn answered the assault easily, his movements calm and fluid where Alexsandr burned with rage and desperation. He made no sound as Alexsandr punctuated his own movements with grunts of effort and snarls of anger, his emotions threatening to cloud his judgement. Their melee lasted just moments, a swift punch to the solar plexus winding him just enough for Thrawn to knock him off his feet with humiliating ease.

Alexsandr flipped back to his feet almost immediately, ignoring the pain in his chest as he watched his opponent. He'd bruise later. The blow might have even fractured something, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except getting his hands on the comm scrambler and smashing it to pieces. If he could even get that short clip of a warning to the Rebel Alliance, it would be something. Alexsandr couldn't give up.

He couldn't let that spark of hope die.

"Your technique," Thrawn said almost mockingly, his lips curling with amusement and his gaze still glittering as he began to circle his prey, "is good. But limited by your training at the Imperial Academy; predictable."

His chest heaving, Alexsandr seized an old stormtrooper helmet — one from the esteemed collection of a misguided Ezra Bridger, who'd once found refuge within these walls — and hurled it at Thrawn with a roar, his gaze blazing. He darted forward in that brief instant before Thrawn caught the helmet and threw himself across the floor, sliding rapidly, and kicked the legs out from under the Grand Admiral.

Thrawn went down with a grunt of pained surprise. He crashed into the floor, losing grip of the comm scrambler, which skittered out of his reach. Before the Grand Admiral could recover, Alexsandr surged to his feet and stamped down on the comm scrambler without mercy, a frisson of triumph shooting through him as it shattered underfoot.

Off to the side, the Fulcrum emblem turned white once more, an electronic noise escaping the transmitter.

It was done.

The warning, incomplete as it was, was sent.

Thrawn glanced at the transmitter, his expression darkening. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Alexsandr, that red gaze burning now with murderous intent. 

"You talk too much," Alexsandr couldn't help growling, unphased in the face of such venom. Thrawn wasn't his first enemy, nor the first genuine threat to his life. Alexsandr had faced his worst nightmare a long time ago, immobile and helpless, defenceless against sharp claws as a nameless rebel ripped through his armour like a warm knife through butter. He'd been left to live with the scars, and the ghost of agonized screams and terrified pleading echoing in his sleep.

Nothing Thrawn could do to him now could ever equal that terror, that overwhelming sense of powerlessness, the knowledge that there was nothing he could do for the people that depended on him. Nothing could compare to a Lasat without a shred of honour, without compassion and integrity, reduced to nought but russet fur, corded muscles, and a thirst for blood.

Alexsandr moved into a familiar, guarded stance and braced himself for another violent clash as Thrawn rose to his feet slowly, rising to his full height. It didn't matter if he lost the fight now, not after ensuring the Rebel Alliance were warned that Thrawn knew something, warned enough to be alert and on their guard. It didn't matter if he died in this abandoned tower, covered in sweat and dust. Alexsandr had achieved what he'd set out to do and he'd take that knowledge to the unmarked, forgotten grave of a traitor with him.

Thrawn was a whirlwind of movement when the attack came, his limbs almost blurring with an unexpected speed. His fists and powerful legs were like serpents, snapping around him, and it took all the strength and determination that Alexsandr could muster just to keep up, but it wasn't long until Thrawn outmatched and overpowered him.

A sudden kick to his bad leg buckled him.

Alexsandr dropped to his knee with a grunt. A burning pain flared through his thigh and threatened to send him careening into a distant memory, but he forced himself to focus and snapped his attention back to his opponent in time to see a boot hurtling towards his head. The blow was like fire and lightning, and slammed him straight into the railing outside. His head hit the railing with a loud, sickening crunch, and stars exploded across his vision as warmth trickled down the back of his neck. His vision swimming nauseatingly, Alexsandr struggled to lift his head as familiar shadows flanked him on either side.

Death Troopers. 

Strong hands seized him and hauled him up, their touch rough and merciless.

Alexsandr told himself to move. He told himself to stand on his own two feet and hold his head high. But his legs refused to cooperate, dragging across the ground as the Death Troopers forced him to face the man who'd defeated him. Finally, Alexsandr managed to lift his head to see Thrawn moving toward him calmly, as though he hadn't broken a single bead of sweat.

Thrawn studied him for a moment and then announced quietly, "You have the heart of a rebel."

His vision dipping in and out of focus, Alexsandr somehow found the strength and presence of mind to say, almost raggedly, "I'll take that as a compliment."

Thrawn said nothing, but stared down at him for a moment longer. His red gaze glittered without emotion now. Wordlessly, Thrawn turned on his heel and stepped back into the tower, his command to drag Alexsandr inside unspoken.

Alexsandr made no effort to fight against their grip, to escape.

What was the point?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A warm thank you to everyone reading, commenting, and leaving kudos. It's much appreciated!
> 
> Here is chapter two!

His arms framing his face and his chest aching, Alexsandr slumped tiredly, his adrenaline waning. The binders suspending him from the joist overhead increased their pressure against his wrists. He knew it would bruise and chafe. He knew it would hurt. But he found it hard to muster enough strength to care while Thrawn was still moving, his frame swimming in and out of focus regularly, his hands tinkering with the transmitter. Alexsandr couldn't focus enough to figure out what he was doing, not until Thrawn inserted a datachip and flipped a switch on the transmitter, setting the tower aglow with a large hologram of the Outer Rim territories.

Alexsandr swallowed a wave of nausea — though he wasn't sure whether it rose because of the glowing lights flooding his blurring field of vision or the small flicker of fear that shot through his heart.

Thrawn studied the glowing star chart for a moment and then shifted until both the hologram and Alexsandr were within his field of vision. He stared through the hologram and fixed his attention on Alexsandr, stating confidently, "You may have transmitted your warning, Agent Kallus, but in doing so...you've given me the last piece of the puzzle."

It was the fear, Alexsandr realised then. It strengthened within him and bile rose. He swallowed thickly, ignoring the acrid taste lingering at the back of his throat. Instead he focused his efforts on watching Thrawn as he tapped a button on the transmitter. 

"Now, this is the trajectory of Dodonna's fleet." Thrawn gestured to the dark red perforated line that now crossed the holographic star chart. He tapped another button and a second perforated line appeared to bisect the first at a sharp angle, converging in vacant space. "And this is the trajectory of your Fulcrum transmission. Taken separately, they mean nothing, but together…"

"Nothing," Alexsandr pushed himself to say, his head pounding in time with his heartbeat. He pushed down a second wave of nausea. He couldn't afford to vomit when the position of his arms restricted his breathing, leaving it harder and harder to exhale with each passing moment. He'd never give Thrawn the satisfaction of seeing him drown in his own vomit. Doing his best to breathe evenly, Alexsandr forced himself to continue speaking, adding, "There's no planet there. The rebels are smarter than you give them credit for."

"A pity you do not study art, Agent Kallus." Something akin to amusement flickered across the Chiss' face, though it veered towards gloating, and Alexsandr wanted nothing more than to kick the expression straight off his aristocratic face. "There is _much_ it can show you, if you know where to look."

Thrawn inserted another datachip into the transmitter and the hologram changed almost immediately, though the perforated lines remained. The expansive map was replaced with an outdated chart. It almost looked more like a work of art than a traditional star chart.

"Such as," Thrawn continued calmly, "a system which does not appear on Imperial charts, but is represented in the art of the ancient people in this sector. I believe they call this Atollon...now the home of your rebel base."

A small sphere flickered into being where the two perforated lines converged.

Alexsandr couldn't help staring, a large knot of dread forming in his stomach. He could feel his jaw growing slack. He struggled to keep the fear off his face as Thrawn stared through the hologram at him. But knew he hadn't succeeded when a triumphant smirk appeared to mock him.

"Admiral Konstantine," Thrawn said coldly, raising his comm link and staring at Alexsandr all the while, dissecting him with his gaze. "Deploy the fleet to these coordinates. We will join you shortly."

Thrawn turned off the hologram and Alexsandr dipped his head to hide his relief as the bright glow faded away, plunging the tower back into shadow. Though the darkness wasn't absolute, with the moonlight shining in through the open doorway, it still took the strain off his blurring vision.

Until Thrawn crouched in front of him and seized his jaw at least.

Alexsandr did his best to glare as Thrawn studied his face.

"Your work with the ISB was exemplary," Thrawn said quietly, his brows shifting to denote confusion and a hint of anger as that red gaze searched his face. Searched for something unseen. Something Alexsandr needed to protect. Something he never wanted Thrawn to touch. The Grand Admiral's grip turned bruising as Alexsandr resisted against his probing stare, his calculations. It was clear that Thrawn detested not knowing, not having the answers to his puzzle. "You were a star pupil at the Academy, and had such a bright future. But something changed. Something interfered with that path." 

Alexsandr couldn't help snarling, his lips twisting viciously, "I saw the truth."

"I'm afraid I'll have to put an end to that."

Thrawn slid his gaze upwards slowly, the action almost a caress.

Alexsandr met his stare without flinching, knowing this was the moment. This was the moment Thrawn would kill him. He wasn't afraid to die. If anything, Alexsandr could die knowing he'd done his best to make amends for all the pain and suffering he'd dealt across the galaxy, for all the needless death he'd let happen without pausing to question the world around him. For being a blind fool. He'd done his best to deserve the second chance Garazeb gave him on that frostbitten moon. Alexsandr let his conviction flood his gaze.

Thrawn released a small breath and his grip gentled a fraction. He leaned closer to murmur softly, "Such an exquisite shade and so expressive. Truly, a work of art. It will be a beautiful addition to my collection."

Alexsandr couldn't stop a strangled gasp from escaping, horrified realisation sliding through his veins like ice as the Death Troopers stepped forward at once. One seized his head from behind as Thrawn relinquished his jaw and stepped away, allowing the other to take his place in front of him. Alexsandr tried to jerk his pounding head free and fought the immediate wave of nausea that rose, knowing he couldn't let them pin him in place.

He couldn't let them do this.

He couldn't.

His breathing grew ragged with something akin to panic as Alexsandr struggled against their grip, against his binders, heedless of the pain that burned across his wrists and down through his arms to his chest. The Death Trooper behind him tightened their grip with a muffled growl and forced his head still as the one in front of him unclipped a tool from their belt.

Its sharp points gleamed in the moonlight.

"You don't have to do this," Alexsandr couldn't stop himself from gasping, ashamed of the pleading note in his voice. He hadn't begged since he was a terrified boy, curled up and hiding within the darkness of his wardrobe, hands pressed hard over his ears to muffle the sounds from downstairs.

Thrawn offered a small smile and said coldly, his red gaze glittering brightly, "You didn't have to turn coat. You could have resigned and disappeared into obscurity, but here we are. You chose this path. Now, you're going to live with the consequences."

"Thrawn —"

Thrawn turned away, releasing a quiet hum of dark satisfaction as he strode out of the tower leisurely, his hands clasped behind his back. His frame was cast in shadow as he stopped in front of the nearest moon.

Alexsandr snarled like a cornered animal and tried to snap with his teeth as the Death Trooper facing him reached for his face. They avoided his teeth easily, and seized the side of his face tightly, their gloved thumb forcing his right eyelid upward with bruising force. 

Alexsandr didn't scream when the moment came. He couldn't stomach the thought of screaming, not after he'd shamed himself with his pleading, his desperation. He wasn't going to give that blue bastard and his dogs the satisfaction of hearing him scream. His teeth clamped down on his lip hard and the taste of copper filled his mouth as hot wetness spilled down his cheek in a thick gush.

It wasn't long until his vision vanished completely, leaving Alexsandr immobile and breathing raggedly, trapped forever in the dark. 

Laughing cruelly, the Death Troopers released him. 

Distantly, almost lost beneath the sound of his heart pounding through the wounds in his face, Alexsandr heard the soft click of a container opening and closing. The sound of sudden freezing followed less than a moment later. A bitter, anguished laugh bubbled up his throat and died in his mouth before it could escape.

His binders were released from suspension.

Alexsandr was hauled to his feet as footsteps approached calmly, the scent of an oncoming storm assaulting him as Thrawn stopped in front of him. He could almost feel the cold smile being directed at him. Not to mention the triumph in that cruel gaze. Even though he couldn't see, Alexsandr tried to meet his gaze all the same, heedless of the blood dripping down from the curve of his jaw and soaking into his uniform.

"Still such fire," Thrawn mused quietly, a cold fingertip tracing the sharp line of his brows in open wonder before withdrawing. Alexsandr refused to shudder as Thrawn added confidently, "But that fire won't survive for much longer. I will extinguish it."

"You won't break me," Alexsandr answered firmly, a lifetime of experience providing him with the confidence and conviction that underscored his words. "I've been trained to resist torture."

"Perhaps." Thrawn walked away, his steps measured. Alexsandr tried to follow his steps, fear and dread writhing in his stomach despite the rage and spite brewing in his heart. He couldn't lose track of Thrawn and his movements. He refused to. "But we all have our breaking points, Agent Kallus. Yours will be exquisite. I look forward to finding it."

Silence fell for a moment.

Then:

"Bring him to the _Chimaera_ and take him to the medbay; get him treated. I have no intention of letting him die from shock or concussion before I quash this rebellion. And have his possessions taken to my office. Use whatever means necessary," said Thrawn. "I have no doubt his quarters have been rigged in some fashion."

The Death Troopers hauled Alexsandr outside roughly, and quickly, causing him to stumble over his own feet. If it hadn't been for their tight grip, he'd have slammed into the ground like a crate of durasteel. Nausea churned inside him. The absolute darkness was disorienting; the world should have been spinning, blurring, and making it harder to stop himself from vomiting, but all he could see now was black.

The world was a void.

His breath quickening, and his fear beginning to morph into panic, Alexsandr tried to keep track of his steps. He tried to keep track of the Death Troopers and their movements, the minute shifts in their muscles and the rustle of their clothes, and tried to pinpoint the location of their weapons through sound alone. If Alexsandr could grab a blaster, or a detonator, or _anything_ , he could stop them from taking him aboard the _Chimaera_.

He could kill himself and take the Death Troopers with him.

But the violent pounding in his head made it difficult to concentrate.

His growing panic made it harder to breathe.

All the while, his blood soaked into his uniform. Hot and sticky, uncomfortable. It wasn't long until his uniform adhered to his skin and chafed with his movements, adding to the aches and pains decorating his body, reminding him of the battle he'd waged with such angry, hateful determination. 

Alexsandr wasn't sure how much time had passed when the scent of cold sterilisation hit him in the face. It could have been minutes. It could have been a half an hour. He'd lost his concentration some time ago, leaving him adrift in the void with nothing but nausea, pain, and dread to act as his companion. 

The sensations weren't much comfort.

Not when the Death Troopers shoved him so hard that he hit the floor with a pained grunt as something crunched in his chest. A lesser man might have cried out. Might have succumbed to tears of pain and anguish. But not him. Not now. Not when he'd been reduced to little more than a prisoner of war in the cold environs he'd once considered an extension of his home planet.

One of the medical droids made a disgruntled noise.

"Get up," one of the Death Troopers snapped. "Now."

Alexsandr didn't move fast enough for their liking. He curled reflexively, ignoring the burning pain in his chest as he tried to protect his organs from the merciless kiss of Imperial boots.

"Really," the medical droid said irritably, "that is quite enough. Now, step back and let me work in peace. Your burning need for revenge can wait. You have orders to attend to."

The Death Trooper huffed in displeasure, but Alexsandr heard them retreat beneath the sound of his wounds and injuries screaming.

Metallic footsteps approached slowly, but heavily, and the sound of gears and electronics grew louder as it neared him. Hearing the mechanical sound of a droid was comforting, even if it did work for the Empire.

Alexsandr released a shaking breath as cold, inorganic hands gripped him and he let the droid help him to his feet. He let the droid lead him to one of the beds and he sat down when prompted. Alexsandr sat still as it looked him over, not wanting to aggravate his wounds or bring the nausea back to the surface.

It wasn't long until Alexsandr was released from the medbay, his face and neck cleaned of blood and dust. The gauze and bandages secured across his face felt cumbersome and heavy, but the bacta beneath felt cool and comforting. The new bald patch at the back of his head was unsettling, however, the area having been cleared so the medical droid could work unhindered. A second set of gauze and bandage kept the bacta in place.

The medical droid hadn't wanted to release him so soon and Alexsandr hadn't wanted to go, but neither of them had much choice in the matter. The droid had given him a mild pain relief that dulled the aches and pains across his body, and something to reduce the concussive swelling across his head. If the droid had its way, Alexsandr was certain he'd be wrapped up in a blanket with a cup of sweetened tea in his hands and kept under observation for the foreseeable future.

As the Death Troopers hauled him away, Alexsandr thought he heard the medical droid mutter angrily, "Barbaric. The Old Republic would never stand for such treatment."

Alexsandr didn't have a chance to turn his head and question the droid. And perhaps that was best. The droid didn't deserve to have the Death Troopers turn their attention on it. He knew there were still droids from the Old Republic enslaved aboard Imperial ships and within Imperial complexes, with restraining bolts to keep their base programming from running riot even though their original personalities still shone through. It broke his heart to think of their long captivity, forced to work under cruel and hateful masters that disrespected droids on a constant basis.

His soft spot for droids used to get him into heaps of trouble.

Alexsandr wasn't sure whether he'd earned such trouble because the droids' allegiances didn't matter enough to him and that concerned his superiors or because his eagerness to work with them brought stark reminders of the Clone Wars to the minds of former Republicans, whose memories were riddled with Separatist droids wreaking havoc and taking lives. He supposed it didn't matter which it was. All he knew was that he'd been reprimanded for spending too much time with droids, too much time talking and tinkering, as though he had nothing better to do.

Even Jovan thought his fondness for droids was laughable. 

His lips thinned.

Not that he cared what Jovan thought of him.

His hands curled into fists at the thought of that greedy, one-eyed bastard. Unlike the rebels, who stole from the Empire to give to the needy, Jovan had embezzled funds and assets to quench his own greed and lust for power. He'd helped no one but himself and Alexsandr couldn't abide the thought.

Jovan was no different than the Empire.

Alexsandr shook his head to dislodge thoughts and memories of the man he'd met at the Royal Academy; their friendship had crashed and burned what felt like a lifetime ago. Before he'd turned coat. Before he'd followed the questions nagging at the back of his mind and saw the truth behind the lies, behind the Imperial conditioning he'd been subjected to, behind the kind smiles of his mentors and the structured living of the bureau. Before he'd crashed on that frostbitten moon with Garazeb Orrelios and rediscovered his conscience when the Lasat was trapped in the escape pod as a starving, determined bonzami tried to tear through durasteel to get to him.

Of course, at the time, Alexsandr had told himself it was for his own survival and nothing more. It wasn't because he'd respected Garazeb as an adversary, as one of the few people who could match his rage and determination. He'd told himself as much even as he'd ignored his broken leg, ignored the agony, and hobbled around the cave as he'd shot at the bonzami again and again to draw its attention towards himself. He'd told himself that it wasn't because the rebel had been kind. He'd told himself that he'd die without Garazeb to help him out of the cave and provide warmth that he couldn't generate himself.

For survival.

To protect and serve.

To bring peace and order to a chaotic world.

For the greater good.

Good soldiers follow orders.

Some of the many, many lies he'd told himself or had been encouraged to swallow since before he’d graduated from the Academy, having begun his studies as a Republican and having finished them as an Imperial. Since the Old Republic died and the New Order rose to take its place, rigid and unforgiving, cold.

Sometimes, Alexsandr could still hear the old broadcasts echoing in his head. The Jedi were traitors — save for a select few that maintained their allegiance to the Chancellor, the new Emperor, Sheev Palpatine. Planets outside the New Order were a threat to their safety, to their newfound and hard-won peace. Spies could be anywhere, anyone. Alexsandr could remember the fear and paranoia that settled on Coruscant during those first few months, and the slow shift in legislation that made it harder and harder to be an alien on Coruscant.

It had rippled outwards, slow and inexorable, invisible to those too afraid to look.

Blatant to those that didn't have the privilege of avoiding the truth.

His throat constricting, Alexsandr bit back the emotions that rose as his mind stumbled over that knowledge. He'd been privileged. He'd been too afraid to acknowledge what he was witnessing, what he was doing, what he'd been complicit in. Sometimes, when the old broadcasts reared their hideous heads in his memories, Alexsandr still experienced flickers of doubt despite what he'd learned since returning from the Geonosian moon and he'd had to grip his meteorite often.

He'd had to remind himself.

That he wasn't making a mistake.

That Garazeb wasn't manipulating him.

That the lies he'd swallowed weren't true. 

The Empire was wrong, and Alexsandr had to do his best to make it right. Even if it meant losing his sight. Even if it meant his own death. What did his death matter, next to all those he'd hurt in the pursuit of peace built on a foundation of lies?

That knowledge gave him the strength to come out of his head and focus his mind on the path ahead of him. With the drugs working through his veins, softening his pain and easing the effects of his head injury, his mind was clearer than it had been on Lothal. It allowed him to track the corridors he and his armed escort passed through.

Alexsandr knew the bridge was close. So close. His convictions grew stronger as he noted the excitement in the steps of the Death Troopers escorting him. It made their steps lighter, quicker, despite the weight in their boots and armour. The two of them were itching to be set loose on the rebels, to cut them down like rabid dogs, and have free reign on the battlefield at last.

The tension in the bridge was almost palpable when Alexsandr stepped through the doorway, his armed escorts on either side of him. Fear. Excitement. Bloodthirst. And the tension grew thicker with each passing moment.

Alexsandr knew it wouldn't be long until the _Chimaera_ reached its destination.

His heart pounding, Alexsandr let his mind run free. He didn't have long to come up with an idea that allowed him to throw a wrench in the machine. If he could obliterate this ship, obliterate Thrawn and his cunning leadership, the Rebel Alliance might still have a chance to survive the assault on their base.

Alexsandr knew he couldn't see and knew he didn't have much chance of success, but the Death Troopers knew it too. He could feel it in their loose grasp. His escorts were too focused on the path ahead than the man between them. If he could break free from their grasp, all he'd need to do was stumble forward as the _Chimaera_ dropped out of its jump, and hit one of the control panels.

Unlike the escape pods, the control panels on the _Chimaera_ and countless other ships in the fleet were touch-sensitive. Alexsandr wouldn't need his vision. He wouldn't need to see what he was doing. One swipe of his hand could do untold damage.

"Your plan won't work." 

"I'm not sure what I could be planning," Alexsandr answered slowly, tilting his head in a show of confusion. His mouth twisted with genuine bitterness. "I'm blind. You made sure of that."

"Agent Kallus," Thrawn chided softly, "don't take me for a fool."

Measured steps approached and soon Thrawn stood close enough that his cold breath fanned across his face. Alexsandr managed to refrain from shuddering, but couldn't stop goose bumps from rising across his skin.

"I've secured the control panels with biometric locks. Your touch will accomplish nothing." A hum of amusement escaped Thrawn as Alexsandr couldn't stop himself from tensing, from taking an immediate step back. It prompted the Death Troopers to tighten their grip and haul him forward once more. "You might be able to outwit the Governor, even with such a disability, but I am a different animal altogether."

An offended noise came from somewhere on the bridge.

Alexsandr said nothing, knowing he'd been beaten. His hands curled into fists and the bruising across his knuckles flared with renewed pain. Just as he envisioned himself slamming his head forward and giving Thrawn a broken nose, the Grand Admiral retreated and robbed him of the satisfaction.

Almost as soon as Thrawn walked away, Alexsandr felt the _Chimaera_ come to a sudden stop. Over a decade of training kept him rooted in place rather than allowing the sudden cessation of momentum to throw him forward as he'd planned. His stomach knotted at the sound of weapons firing, and durasteel screaming, knowing a ship was foundering even now, helpless and engulfed in flames.

Alexsandr couldn't tell who it was, whether it was Imperial or rebel. He couldn't tell whose lives were lost. And somehow, somehow that was worse than if he'd known. Not knowing, not having certainty, left his mind to trip over itself as he directed his face towards the viewport that he couldn't see. It left him to drown in growing dread and panic.

"What of Governor Tarkin's prisoners," Governor Pryce asked.

"General Dodonna is known for his courage," Thrawn answered quietly, his voice travelling across the silent bridge with ease. "He wouldn't be aboard the first vessel to flee. Its crew is, therefore, irrelevant."

Alexsandr felt his breath catch in his chest. Conflicting emotions rushed through him simultaneously, waging war within his veins. Horror at knowing it was a rebel ship engulfed in flames. And a sick sense of relief that it wasn't the _Ghost_. That it wasn't Garazeb. Of course, guilt was quick to follow. Alexsandr knew he shouldn't feel relieved in the face of such death and destruction.

"Begin a holotransmission. I wish to speak with the leaders still on the surface."

"Sir," said one of the officers obediently, and it wasn't long until the holotransmission connected with the rebel base. Alexsandr snapped his attention toward the sound of the connection immediately, alert.

"General Dodonna," Thrawn greeted quietly, his voice soft and dangerous. No one could doubt that he had the upper hand in that moment. "Commander Sato. Captain Syndulla. At last we meet in this theatre of war, however briefly."

Alexsandr almost snorted upon hearing such a melodramatic comment. He ignored the pain flaring across his mouth as he pressed his lips into a thin line. The holotransmission was just another part of Thrawn's game, but Alexsandr knew that the rebels wouldn't be taken in. Not now. Not with so much at stake.

"There is no escape," Thrawn continued confidently, "and your forces are badly outnumbered. This rebellion ends today."

"We'll never surrender to _you_ , Thrawn."

"You misunderstand, Captain." Alexsandr could almost hear Thrawn smiling, the expression cold and calculating, and cruel. It sickened him. "I'm not accepting surrenders at this time. I want you to know failure. Utter defeat. And that it is I who delivers it, crashing down, upon you. Now, let us proceed."

It wasn't long until Alexsandr heard the sound of TIE fighter engines screaming past the viewport. Such an iconic sound — known across the galaxy, hated and feared. And he knew it meant the rebels had launched their fighters, their x-wings and other older models jumping into the fray, the pilots putting themselves between the Seventh Fleet and the transports laden with lives and vital supplies. Alexsandr knew the frigates and corvettes would be doing the same, a second line of defence.

It also meant that the _Ghost_ and its crew had joined the action.

Alexsandr bit back the note of distress that threatened to rise at the thought. At the knowledge that Garazeb and the others would risk their own lives before letting the Seventh Fleet touch the transports. At the knowledge that the _Ghost_ crew was both reckless and more courageous than Alexsandr could ever hope to be. He couldn't afford to show his weaknesses, his truest allegiances. He couldn't afford to show the hint of softness at his core, where the reason behind his treason could be found. Not when Thrawn would be so quick to exploit it. But Alexsandr couldn't stop himself from listening, hoping that the _Ghost_ would soar past the viewport and he'd hear the sound of its familiar engine singing.

He needed to hear it.

He needed to _know_.

To think he'd spent so long hunting that ship, hunting its crew, and now his worst fear was its destruction.

It was insane.

It was unfathomable.

And it terrified him. 

But the sound of a holotransmission connecting soon distracted him and pulled his attention from the viewport. His heart hammering, Alexsandr turned his head towards the sound and heard Thrawn say, "Konstantine. Keep your Interdictor Cruiser back until I order otherwise."

"Why not just attack now with overwhelming force?" Alexsandr could hear the faint sound of his confusion and uncertainty, and the undercurrent of his frustration with the Grand Admiral. "I could —"

"Because I know these rebels," Thrawn interjected immediately, his voice low and dangerous, hard. It was almost a growl. "I've studied them. They will, no doubt, defy convention and attempt something unexpected. We will be prepared for it — as long as you do exactly as I say."

"As you wish."

Alexsandr couldn't help smirking; the open contempt was unmistakable before the connection closed. There was no love lost between Thrawn and Konstantine, who felt the promotion to Grand Admiral was undeserved. Who felt the rapid rise through the ranks was undeserved. Not that he'd ever confessed as much out loud. Konstantine wouldn't dare when the Emperor himself had been behind those promotions. But Alexsandr wasn't stupid. He'd seen the undercurrent of hate and irrational jealousy, the outrage that an _alien_ had been welcomed into the ranks and had proven himself a superior and more efficient leader and tactician than most of the humans around him. 

Konstantine wouldn't be the first to show such sentiments.

And he wouldn't be the last.

"Fighting over glory," Alexsandr drawled. He let his amusement shine through.

"I do not require glory," Thrawn answered slowly, and Alexsandr heard his uniform rustle as the Chiss turned a fraction toward him. He could almost hear the simmering anger in his voice. "Only results for my Emperor."

_Liar_ , Alexsandr thought. His smirk deepened and he turned his attention back toward the viewport. Thrawn could refute his thirst for glory, his hunger to prove himself superior, but Alexsandr knew better. It was written all over his flowery, melodramatic speeches. It was rooted in the anger that surged when Konstantine questioned his superiority, his intelligence and cunning.

All the while, the battle raged.

Engines screamed.

Weapons fired. 

Explosions, small and large, made themselves known. 

And Alexsandr knew Konstantine would make a mistake — perhaps a grave one. His own thirst for power and recognition and his impatience with the long games that Thrawn planned would ensure it. Alexsandr knew Konstantine wouldn't be able to hold back for long. Where Thrawn had the patience to wait for an eternity, a serpent hidden in the long grass, Konstantine wanted results _now_.

It would be their undoing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait until the morning to post this, but decided I'd post it now instead because I have so little self-restraint.
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Alexsandr slid down the wall of the cold cell he'd been thrown into and laughed until his throat hurt. Laughed until his chest seized and then laughed some more as his hand clutched at the painful expanse, fingers almost clawing through his blood-stained uniform. His laughter wasn't pleasant. It was grim. It burned with regret and dark satisfaction all at once. Alexsandr hadn't been wrong, after all.

One man.

One mistake.

One ship.

That was all it took for a single rebel to escape the Imperial blockade and flee in search of reinforcements. 

Alexsandr draped his arms over his knees and bowed his head as his laughter faded gradually, his aches and pains a lingering reminder. His sense of regret deepened. Sato had commanded the carrier, the one that ploughed straight through Konstantine and his Interdictor Cruiser, annihilating them both in the same devastating sweep. Alexsandr just hoped the crew and passengers from the carrier managed to escape the radius before the raging inferno engulfed the two large ships and rocked the rest of the fleet with its powerful shockwaves.

Briefly, Alexsandr felt a pang of remorse for the lives lost on the Interdictor. He knew the Empire was wrong, of course; it was poisonous before it ever took root within the bones of the Old Republic. But he also knew that he couldn't be alone. He couldn't be alone in hiding from his conscience for so long, afraid to look and acknowledge their own complicity, their own wrongdoing. More and more people turned coat each day; some could even have been aboard the ship Konstantine lost to his own stupidity, his own lust for power and recognition. 

Alexsandr would never know for certain. 

What Alexsandr did know was that Thrawn was both surprised and furious when the Interdictor Cruiser broke position and weakened their blockade. He'd heard the surge of emotion as Thrawn commanded Konstantine to get back into position and the man of lower rank ignored his authority, flouting it openly, in front of their combined bridge crews -- a grave insult to an officer of high rank. 

"Having trouble performing," Alexsandr had asked pleasantly, but deliberately, knowing it would get under that blue skin. Knowing it would be salt rubbed straight into an open wound.

It hadn't surprised him when Thrawn seized him roughly, his hand wrapping tight around his neck and squeezing hard. The serpentine hiss of rage had been unmistakable and its effect on him was almost visceral.

Alexsandr might have smirked in triumph were it not for his desperate need to breathe.

But Thrawn had released him almost an instant later, drawing in a deep breath. He'd surprised him then with an unexpected brush of his hands across his shoulders, as though smoothing out the rumpled fabric of his uniform. He'd brushed a few pieces of lint away, as though straightening him out was the natural progression from attempting to strangle him on the bridge.

Alexsandr hadn't been able to stop himself from frowning, taken aback. He hadn't expected such a gentle touch in the wake of such cruelty, such roughness. Certainly, it wasn't how traitors were treated normally, and that knowledge unnerved him even now.

It left him wondering what Thrawn had in store for him.

Alexsandr didn't want to know, but knew he wouldn't have a choice in the matter. He released a small breath and tipped his head back against the cell wall gently, not wanting to disrupt the ongoing healing process beneath his bandages. He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd been hauled down to the cell and shoved through the doorway, how much time had passed since Thrawn ordered the fleet to force the rebels to ground in an attempt to make up for Konstantine and his poor judgement. Honestly, Alexsandr wasn't sure he wanted to know.

So much devastation could occur in the span of one minute.

Fear knotted his stomach. Its frostbitten touch burned him instantly, sending his mind stumbling back to that fateful night with Garazeb, incapacitated and helpless as the furious Lasat towered over him and stared him down.

Alexsandr shuddered and bit back the surge of emotion that rose. His hands curled into fists. He didn't want to think about Garazeb, about his kindness and his mercy, about the unexpected flashes of teasing humour as lethal fangs glistened in the light refracting from the pillars of ice and bouncing around the cave as the sun set. He didn't want to think about his courage and his willingness to throw himself into danger to protect a wounded enemy, his overwhelming honour shining like a golden beacon. More importantly, Alexsandr didn't want to think about Garazeb broken and bloody, sprawling lifeless across the red sands of Atollon.

Drawing his knees closer to his chest and pressing his face against them was instinctual.

It didn't matter that the mild pain relief he'd been given earlier was starting to wane. It didn't matter that his chest hurt. That his leg hurt. That his face hurt. That his entire frame was riddled with sharpening aches and pains.

Nothing hurt more than the fear in his gut and the images flickering across his mind.

Garazeb, Bridger, Jarrus, and their stalwart captain. Slain and cast aside like their lives never mattered. Wren, blown to bloodied pieces, the ancient and glorified strength of her beskar armour useless against the might of Thrawn and the Empire at his back. Their bloodthirsty, clever astromech fried until no longer recognisable.

The pilots he'd helped escape. Young, impressionable, and filled with a fire that couldn't be quenched. Thrown into a war he'd never had a chance to prepare them for. And countless other rebels, faceless, and lost before Alexsandr could ever learn their names.

Too much.

It was too much.

His growing fear morphed into dread and soon held hands with guilt.

Alexsandr slid his hands into his hair and gripped tight. He tried to ground himself. He tried to remind himself that it wasn't over. Far from it. He reminded himself that he'd been in situations like this before, though never as a rebel. No, he'd been an Imperial and he'd been thwarted time and time again as the rebels he'd chased emerged victorious from certain defeat.

This time would be no different.

Certainly, the rebels would suffer untold losses, but Thrawn would return from Atollon no closer to squashing the rebellion than he'd been before.

Alexsandr had to believe that. He had to believe that Garazeb and his crew, that the Rebel Alliance, would survive to fight again and again until Thrawn and the Emperor were toppled from their pedestals. He couldn't afford to think otherwise. He didn't _want_ to think otherwise. A world where the Empire reigned unquestioned and unchallenged wasn't one Alexsandr wished to live in.

Not now.

Not when he'd finally, _finally_ , learned to see past the lies he'd been fed and the lies he'd told himself to silence his conscience. Not when he'd learned to hear his conscience again. Not when he'd found a purpose that felt _right_.

_Garazeb_ , Alexsandr thought roughly, pressing his face harder against his knees and ignoring the flare of sharp pain across his empty, bruised sockets. His hands tightened in his hair. He could almost feel his knuckles whitening from the pressure. His lips twisted with emotion he didn't want to feel. _You'd better survive or I won't be able to make it out the other side of this._

Alexsandr turned his head slightly, relieving the pressure on his face.

Time trickled by, slowly and inexorably, like droplets falling from a pipette. 

Alexsandr remained on the floor until the silent protests from his injured frame became too much to tolerate. It forced him to drag himself to his feet. His leg protested noticeably, but it wasn't unexpected. Much like Alexsandr, his leg had never recovered from crashing on that frostbitten moon and the harsh kick Thrawn had dealt him earlier wouldn't be ignored for much longer.

He should have known Thrawn would notice his leg, how he tried to take his weight off it during long shifts. How his hand reached for that spot just above his knee when the cold permeating the Imperial ships and complexes grew intolerable. How the cold made him stiff.

Alexsandr had never noticed how cold the ships and complexes were until he'd returned from that moon. He'd never noticed how desolate those spaces were, even with stormtroopers and officers milling about. Until Garazeb bulldozed into his life and introduced warmth with the brush of his fur, and his teasing, and the press of his larger body, igniting something within him against his will.

Once he'd parted with Garazeb, the cold never left him. It sank inside his bones and his meteorite had paled in comparison to the welcome furnace Garazeb had been at his side, but he'd curled around it all the same as he'd waited to be rescued. He'd clung to the meteorite even as an outdated merchant vessel descended from the sky, answering the transponder that Garazeb left with him.

He'd clung to the meteorite as the ship docked with the _Relentless_.

Alexsandr had never stopped clinging, his hands seeking its warmth as soon as he had a moment to himself. The cold followed him wherever he went now. It had followed him straight into the cell. And now he didn't have his meteorite to chase the cold away, to remind him of what warmth felt like.

Grimacing, Alexsandr started pacing, hobbling really, knowing he'd need to keep moving to keep the stiffness out of his leg. He couldn't let himself seize up. He couldn't afford to. Not when he knew Thrawn would return eventually, defeated and angry, and in need of something to soothe his ego. Alexsandr wasn't going to be that balm -- no matter how much it hurt to keep himself moving, to keep himself prepared to lash out in self-defence. No matter how debilitating it was to be trapped in an endless void with no means of escape.

Alexsandr paced cautiously, his hands stretched out in front of him. He counted his steps carefully, his mind running conversion calculations, needing to determine how much space he had to move around in. He needed to know where possible trip hazards lay, and how to avoid them. Not to mention needing to find something, _anything_ , that could be adapted for combat use. Alexsandr would be fighting blindly, but he'd rather go down fighting than sit and wait for Thrawn to finish him off in a fit of pique.

Back when he'd been a diligent member of the ISB, Alexsandr made certain to remove such items from prison cells before escorting detainees inside, knowing that even a toothbrush could become a weapon in the right hands. Not that his knowledge and diligence made a difference whenever he'd captured and imprisoned Bridger; the padawan was more resourceful at the tender age of fifteen than most Imperials were in their thirties. It was embarrassing, really, and infuriating, and Alexsandr couldn't help but respect him for it even when he'd been a devoted agent of the Empire.

Bridger wasn't born resourceful. Alexsandr knew that as well as he knew the backs of his own hands. It was a skill he'd developed on the streets of Lothal -- when surviving the night meant stealing, and capture meant imprisonment or worse. Stealing from the Empire was never a wise decision. Bridger had to get smarter, sharper, quicker, and more dexterous to survive. He had to get ruthless.

It reminded Alexsandr of himself...though he'd never admit it aloud. Not even to himself in the confines of his cell. Usually, he tried to avoid thinking of that period in his life -- when things went from bad to worse as he'd struggled to survive on the streets of Coruscant. Until he'd tried to pick the pocket of the wrong man and found himself staring up into the leathery, weathered face of a Togruta. Alexsandr could still remember his grip, tight and unforgiving around his wrist.

The old bastard had almost wrenched his arm out of its socket.

Alexsandr could remember glaring to hide his own fear and the snarl that escaped him when he tried to pull his wrist free. He could remember his heart pounding, doing its best to punch a hole straight through his chest.

"You don't need to steal to make a living, kid."

"Who said I was stealing," Alexsandr had growled -- aware of the Clone Troopers patrolling nearby, armed and intimidating, and who wouldn't have an issue with throwing a kid into a cell for the night. He hadn't wanted that on his record. He hadn't wanted to be known. He hadn't wanted to be recognised. Not when he'd known it would mean facing his uncle, with that red hair so much like his own and that uneven jaw the man shared with his mother.

Not when it would bring questions Alexsandr didn't want to face.

Alexsandr recoiled from the memory, catching himself against the door of his prison cell as he stumbled over his own feet. No, no. No. He didn't want to think about that. About his uncle. His mother. His past on Coruscant. Alexsandr inhaled raggedly, focusing on the pain flaring across his chest to distract himself from the emotions surging at the back of his mind.

Having found the door, Alexsandr followed the adjoining wall until he found the corner and then he began taking careful measurements of the breadth of the cell. Once he was confident in his figures, Alexsandr hummed in satisfaction and searched for the bunk carefully, not wanting to hurt his leg even further. He ripped the mattress and pillow off as soon as he found it and lowered himself to his knees with a faint grunt of pained effort. 

Alexsandr ran his hands over the bunk slowly, frowning deeply, looking for even the slightest weaknesses in the frame. If he could prise one of the slats away, it might be serviceable, though he'd prefer a solid leg with a good bit of heft. But he knew it depended on whether a maintenance droid had visited the cell in recent weeks. If one had come by, prising part of the bunk free would be impossible without the help of some tools to loosen the rivets securing the different parts together.

Sighing heavily, Alexsandr pulled his hands back in disappointment. He returned the mattress and pillow to the bunk before dragging himself to his feet. His fingers shot downwards to massage his thigh for a moment. Thankfully, Thrawn hadn't broken his leg again. Alexsandr knew that much from experience. But even as the knots in his muscles eased away, pain throbbed across his skin in consistent pulses. Alexsandr could feel the swelling, the bruising, and he suspected the femur within had been bruised as well. 

But his leg didn't matter for the moment.

Alexsandr searched for the sink next. He ran his fingers over the edges, finding where it met the wall. His frown deepened a fraction and pain flared through his sockets, and across his eyelids, but he ignored it as well as he could. His pain didn't matter. Nothing mattered more than finding something, _anything_ , to arm himself with.

Once he'd determined there was no gap, Alexsandr inspected the faucets. The sink wasn't unlike the one in his quarters in the Capital Complex or even aboard the _Relentless_ , though it seemed to be an older model. It might have been intended as a short-term replacement for a damaged faucet. Still...it gave him something to work with. A faucet wasn't ideal weaponry, but it would suffice in a pinch. Gripping one of the faucets tightly, Alexsandr planted his good leg against the edge of the sink with care and drew in a deep breath before heaving sharply, a shout of pain and effort escaping him as the faucet came free and he toppled to the floor.

Alexsandr hit the deck hard and almost bit his tongue. 

A second later, cold water drenched his legs. 

But at least it wasn't his bandages being soaked.

Alexsandr heaved in breath after breath. It had taken more effort than he'd expected to pull the older faucet free. He could feel the result of the strain in his arms still. Spasms rippled through his muscles. His shoulders screamed their protests. His hands cramped as he flexed his fingers and Alexsandr cursed under his breath.

But he had a weapon now. It was small and didn't have much heft. But Alexsandr was strong; he could make it work. Provided the next visitor to his cell wasn't wearing a helmet and visor.

Slowly, carefully, not wanting to slip in the water spilling across the floor, Alexsandr dragged himself to his feet once he'd caught his breath. He moved over to the door and settled down to wait as he gripped the faucet tightly, knowing this might be the last chance he'd have to break free.

_You expect to get out of here alive? You're_ _blind. You don't have a chance_.

"Shut up," Alexsandr growled under his breath. He didn't need that rumbling growl whispering words of defeat at the back of his mind. His grip tightened around the faucet until his joints began to strain.

_You need help._

"I have no one else," Alexsandr muttered to himself. He hated that he was reduced to this, to arguing with that voice at the back of his mind. He had no other allies but his conscience. He was alone. Just as he'd been on the streets of Coruscant. "I'll have to make do. Just like before."

_You have the spark. You should use it!_

The spark. That was what he'd called it once.

_I don't know how_ , Alexsandr almost snapped. But he bit the words back before he could voice them. He didn't want to acknowledge the spark and he didn't want to use it. He'd cut himself off from the spark for a reason. It infuriated him that his conscience would suggest using it now, knowing what he'd done -- what he was capable of when the spark lived in his veins. Alexsandr never wanted to let the spark in again.

The spark was a curse.

_You're wrong_ , the rumbling voice whispered. It almost sounded sad. _The spark is a gift_.

Alexsandr scrubbed a shaking hand over his jaw and made a point of ignoring his conscience from that point forward. It was bad enough that he'd entertained the voice long enough to be reminded of the spark for the second time in the span of a few hours.

Really, imprisonment was doing him no favours.

And so Alexsandr waited.

And waited.

Alexsandr listened to the world on the other side of the door, tracking footsteps and voices, wondering whether this stormtrooper or that officer would be the one to open his cell door and step inside. But none of them did. The waiting kept him on edge. It kept his muscles coiled and his heart racing, pumping increasing amounts of adrenaline through his veins and forcing his pain into submission.

Water continued to flood his cell all the while.

Alexsandr couldn't help wondering when it would be noticed. When someone would come to relieve him of his makeshift weapon. Or when a maintenance droid would come to fix the sink.

Honestly, it would be better if a droid came to the cell. Alexsandr could deal with most droids without resorting to violence. Droids could be reasoned with and their programming could be altered so easily; Alexsandr was confident that he could do it blind. Most droids didn't even like working for the Empire anyway, their programming notwithstanding.

No one liked to be treated as disposable.

Not even droids.

As time passed by, Alexsandr could feel himself jittering from the overwhelming amount of adrenaline pumping through his veins. It almost felt like he'd swallowed too much caf before bed. It left his heart on the verge of palpitations. Adrenaline and increasing levels of stress weren't a great combination for a man that needed a clear head in order to escape his prison. Alexsandr tried to focus on his breathing, on keeping it slow and steady, instead of letting it slip into something short and shallow.

Short and shallow wouldn't help him.

Alexsandr adjusted his grip on the faucet and adjusted his stance to ease the pressure on his leg. His leg wasn't hurting, not with adrenaline pumping consistently, but a sense of discomfort remained. 

A moment later, the sound of measured steps approached.

Thrawn.

Of course, it was Thrawn.

Dread stabbed through his gut.

Determination swelled in his chest.

Alexsandr shifted a fraction closer to the door, a cold sweat breaking out across the small of his back. He tightened his grip on the faucet as the footsteps slowed to a stop outside and Thrawn inserted his code cylinder, unlocking the cell door. Alexsandr swung with all his might as Thrawn stepped through the doorway, biting back a shout of effort. 

The blow never landed.

The Grand Admiral moved like lightning, ducking beneath his arm in an instant and seizing his wrist as Alexsandr overshot his target. Thrawn used his momentum to slam his face and chest against the wall in seconds, twisting his arm behind his back and wrenching hard enough to force him to drop the faucet. It clattered to the floor between their feet.

"A faucet? Really," Thrawn said quietly, leaning in dangerously, "this is just pathetic."

"I'd rather make a pathetic attempt to escape than be docile and wait for execution."

"Execution?" The smirk crawling across that blue face was almost tangible. It was almost as palpable as the quiet humour in his voice. "Death is far too merciful for a wilful traitor, I'm afraid."

Alexsandr shuddered as a cold breath fanned across his ear and jaw, raising goose bumps across his skin. His stomach churned with nausea. Swallowing thickly, he ignored the urge to demand to know what would happen next. To know what happened on Atollon. To know who'd lived and who'd died. He wasn't in a position to make demands. Not when Thrawn could snap his arm in an instant. And if Alexsandr moved cautiously, the Grand Admiral might reveal such information on his own.

Thrawn wouldn't be able to stop himself from gloating, if he'd been victorious. And if he'd been thwarted? Well. The whole ship would know his fury, Alexsandr knew. 

"I have to say," Thrawn said eventually, leaning harder against him and sending a bolt of pain shooting up to his shoulder, "I learned some _interesting_ things while on the surface. Your bo-rifle caused quite a stir."

Alexsandr bit back the stream of curses that rose. The thought of Thrawn running his murderous, dishonourable hands over _his_ weapon infuriated him. It sickened him. His mouth twisted around a snarl of rage. Far too easily, Alexsandr could imagine how the sight affected Garazeb, who wouldn't have been able to contain his rage at seeing Thrawn wielding the sacred weapon of an Honour Guard.

He'd been on the receiving end of that rage himself once.

Before Garazeb learned the truth.

"You don't deserve to wield that weapon."

"No?" Alexsandr could hear the bastard's amusement deepening. "Did I not emerge victorious from our fight? Is it not customary, Agent Kallus, to claim the weapon of an inferior opponent? Is that not the nature of the _Boosahn Keeraw_?"

Alexsandr couldn't stop a snarl from escaping, hearing Thrawn reference the Warrior Way, and butchering the Lasana language in the process. Without thinking, and without hesitating, Alexsandr snapped his head backwards and was rewarded with a surprised grunt of pain and an immediate stumble backward.

As soon as the pressure on his chest eased away, Alexsandr used the grip on his arm to his own advantage and twisted sharply, slamming his free fist into an aristocratic chin and knocking the Chiss' head upwards.

Thrawn went down immediately, slipping on the faucet on the floor, but his grip remained like a vice around his arm. He dragged Alexsandr down with him. The pair of them hit the floor with a pained grunt and soon the two were grappling viciously, fists and knees and nails and teeth making their rage known.

But it wasn't long until Thrawn had him pinned down.

"Still an inferior warrior," Thrawn stated calmly, his breath a fraction quicker.

"You understand nothing," Alexsandr spat. His frame trembled with the strength of his rage and his need to continue throttling the bastard pinning him to the floor. "You never will. The _Boosahn Keeraw_ is about more than _victory_ , Thrawn. It is an age-old practice rooted in honour and integrity, and mutual respect." 

"You're a traitor, Agent Kallus. You have no honour to speak of."

Alexsandr couldn't stop a bubble of bitter, almost manic laughter from rising in his throat and falling from his lips. He might have equated turning coat with dishonour once, but not now. Not ever again. He knew better now. Alexsandr could almost feel Thrawn staring, could almost hear his mind calculating, thirsting to understand his surge of laughter despite what Thrawn intended as a barbed insult.

_I'm not wrong_ , Alexsandr thought with some relief. His hands curled into fists all the same. Alexsandr raised his chin in a deliberate show of defiance. _Thrawn will never understand the Boosahn Keeraw. He'll never understand that a bo-rifle could never be claimed through force. It has to be given freely, like a mark of respect. And I could never respect him. Not as a person and never as a warrior._

Thrawn wasn't a warrior.

He was a snake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another chapter. This one is from Zeb's POV!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what you think!

Zeb sat in the rear of the cockpit and watched the churning blue miasma that signified their jump, their abandonment of what used to be their base and would now live on as a grave for their fallen brothers- and sisters-in-arms. His ears drooped with grief and regret. His stomach churned over and over. Something unnameable frothed inside and around him as Zeb glanced towards the back of the ship, towards Atollon and the Seventh Fleet left in their wake.

The Ashla wasn't happy; it was agitated and growing more so with each passing moment. Zeb could feel it in the bristling of his fur and the increasing sparkage beneath his skin like a power core threatening to ignite. But he didn't know why, not for sure.

A number of things could be the reason.

His own thoughts and feelings were a mess and had been since the aborted transmission from Kallus, the Fulcrum Agent assigned to their squadron. It had worsened when Thrawn arrived on the base with Kallus’ bo-rifle in hand. Seeing him wield the sacred weapon had been like a punch to the gut.

And the influx of pain and anguish from the collection of rebels crammed on to the _Ghost_ during their escape was affecting the current flowing through and around him.

It was almost overwhelming.

Years ago, Zeb might have found it easier to discern what was what. But he hadn't opened himself up to the Ashla in so long, it felt like he was learning how to connect all over again. What he wouldn't give to have Chava the Wise on board right now, with her wisdom and her deep connection to the Ashla.

His mouth curled around a wry, but sad smile.

Undoubtedly, Chava would give him a piece of her mind for abandoning her teachings for so long. Zeb could almost feel the sharp rap of her staff on the top of his head and couldn't help rubbing the area lightly, a pang of fondness rising in his chest. She'd bonked him on the head so often when he was a boy, though never too hard. Just enough to catch his attention.

Zeb had been one of her most wilful students.

It had amused and frustrated Chava in equal measure.

Not to mention his grandmother.

Zeb huffed and rose to his feet abruptly, pushing his childhood memories aside with a firm hand. Thinking about Lasan wasn't going to help ease the agitation running through the Ashla. He followed the outpouring of grief and pain instead and soon found himself crouching over Darius Winnfair, one of his brothers-in-arms, helping him to sit up against the bulkhead and take a cooling sip of water from a hip flask. 

Darius, still just a tender boy, had bacta patches and gauze plastered across half of his torso. He'd caught the barest edge of a bolt of lightning during their rapid escape from Atollon. His dark forehead was drenched with sweat now and his hands were shaking intensely, though whether it was because of shock or the faint beginnings of infection remained to be seen.

Zeb couldn't smell sickness though. Just fear and distress, pain reliever, and so much burnt flesh.

Unthinking, Zeb smoothed his damp curls back from his forehead and said gently, "Ya did well out there, kid. Yer Da'd be proud."

Darius burst into tears less than a moment later and Zeb swallowed thickly, his heart jumping into his throat at the sight. Seeing kids sobbing never failed to affect him. He liked to claim it was because of his sensitive ears, but those who knew him best knew better.

"Hey," Zeb said soothingly, shifting to sit beside the boy, wrapping his arm around him and drawing him close to his side. Just as he would have when he'd been Captain of the Honour Guard and faced with an upset cadet. Darius clung to him in return and Zeb ran a hand over his hair, murmuring, "Hey, now. You're alright. You're safe. Just let it all out. No one will think anythin' of it."

Darius sobbed until he didn't have tears left to cry, until he could do nothing but hiccough and shake from exhaustion before drifting into a dead sleep. 

Zeb held him and ran a soothing hand over his hair all the while. He wasn't surprised when Hera arrived with a pillow and blanket for the boy, her gaze laden with shared grief and understanding. Working together, the two of them shifted Darius further out of the way, sliding the pillow under his head and tucking the blanket around him with immense care.

The kid deserved a bed...but there just weren't enough cots and bunks to go around.

Briefly, Hera and Zeb watched Darius sleep, both of them sad and regretful that kids his age had been dragged kicking and screaming into this fight because their parents were being rounded up and beaten or killed in cold blood. For seditious words on underground broadcasts. For refusing to serve Imperials in cantinas. For refusing to give up their livelihoods for the _good of the Empire_.

Zeb almost snarled at the thought.

Hera rested a hand against his arm.

Zeb swallowed his rage immediately, knowing Hera was right. Of course, Hera was right. She wasn't captain for nothing, after all. His rage was the last thing these people needed right now. No, what these rebels needed was rest and healing, comfort and understanding, and Zeb could provide that as well as the rest of them.

It used to be part of his job once.

Slowly, Zeb moved through the ship, devoting his attention to those who needed him most. He lost count of the rebels he held through their desperate and sometimes violent sobbing, lost count of those he helped to eat and drink and use the refresher. But Zeb never lost count of the hands he'd held as some took their last breath on a table or cot or while leaning against a crate of supplies.

He couldn't lose count.

How could he?

Each life was precious and each loss was devastating, burning into his heart and memories. 

Just like Lasan.

Weary, his heart heavy, Zeb carried each of the dead to the designated spot in the cargo bay, setting them down with care and shrouding them in white blankets someone had pulled from one of the crates. Each one wore him down just a little bit more and brought memories of Lasan closer to the surface.

Zeb hadn't been able to care for his fallen people then. He hadn't been able to gather them together and shroud them in preparation for mass burial. He'd just about managed to choke out a single plea for the Ashla to be merciful and treat their spirits with kindness as a Wookie half-carried him into their ship, their brethren covering their escape with blasters and detonators.

No one had expected the Wookies to arrive.

No one had expected help to come at all.

Their distress call had been jammed. 

Much later, he'd learned the Wookies had intercepted and decoded an Imperial transmission. Hadn't hesitated to gather some of their finest warriors and jump straight to Lasan. Hadn't hesitated to help even though it would earn an aggressive retaliation from the Empire. 

Zeb had burst into tears when he'd seen other survivors aboard the ship, all of them huddling together on the floor. Two or three cadets. A handful of broken and bloodied guardsmen. A wizened civilian clinging to her grandchild and sobbing openly, her fur matted with so much blood and dirt. But it hadn't been her own. Zeb had staggered over to the group, still bleeding, and he'd collapsed into their welcoming arms with a strangled sob.

Zeb braced an arm against the bulkhead now and hung his head low, crushing his lashes against his cheeks as he struggled to catch his breath. He could still smell the blood and charred fur, and the sour scent of distress burning his senses. He could still feel the dust from the fallen palace clinging to his fur, cementing in his mouth and choking him with ease. He could still hear the low, crooning noises from one of the Wookies as the ship abandoned the surface and fled as fast as it could. Zeb could still feel the visceral fear as the ship had twisted rapidly, dodging an Imperial barrage with expert precision.

His heart thundered in his chest even now.

He'd seen what the Empire could do with their ion disruptors, to ships and people.

Lasan had been their field test. 

Zeb could still remember the bellow of anguish that tore through his chest when a single green blast took out the Royal Family, their shuttle high in the sky, their agonised screams echoing over the battlefield and their smoking ashes scattering in the wind. He could remember the powerless shuttle plummeting back to the ground and careening straight through the battlefield with a deafening scream of metal — taking out guardsmen and stormtroopers alike in the same violent sweep.

Children.

The shuttle had been filled with children.

And he'd promised them it would be alright.

He was wrong.

"Zeb?"

Zeb almost jumped out of his skin when a hand touched his arm. His heart almost exploded in his chest. He whirled around to see Sabine watching him closely, and Fenn Rau not too far away, their helmets tucked under their arms.

"You okay, Big Guy?"

_No_.

"Yeah." Zeb swallowed his emotions immediately, and shoved his memories into a chest at the back of his mind. He scrubbed a hand over his face to erase whatever incriminating evidence might have been lurking within his short fur, waiting to be noticed. "Just...just tired. Been a long day, ya know."

Sabine stared at him shrewdly, her lips twisting.

But Rau. There was knowledge there. Knowledge and grave understanding, his gaze dark with it. Rau was a warrior and a leader. He'd fought in the Clone Wars before the Empire was even a twinkle in the universe. Undoubtedly, he'd lost countless Mandalorians to the Separatists. Rau understood the immense weight of duty, and knew loss. 

Zeb watched him warily, wondering if he'd speak up. Rat him out to Sabine and the others dotted throughout the ship, helping where possible. But Rau just tipped his head forward and turned on his heel to climb the ladder, disappearing further into the ship without a word. Zeb couldn't help the grateful smile that stole across his face after the Mandalorian disappeared.

He knew there was a reason he'd liked Rau.

"Zeb," Sabine said quietly, stepping closer, concerned. Her grip tightened a fraction. Her gloved nails dug into his skin and the pressure was almost comforting. Almost. "You _can_ talk to me, you know. I know bombs and blasters is more our thing, but I _am_ here for you. If you need me. We all are."

"I know, Sabine. I know." Zeb covered her hand with his and squeezed lightly, hoping she knew he meant it. He knew Sabine viewed him as an elder brother, just as he'd come to see her as a kid sister in return. Growing and getting wiser all the time, but still just a kid underneath all that armour. She didn't deserve to have the weight of his loss on her shoulders. "But ya have enough on yer plate without me addin' to it. I'll be fine."

"Alright." Sabine gestured between them with two fingers. "But I'm watching."

"When aren't ya?"

"Good point."

Both of them squeezed once more before parting, Sabine turning to climb the ladder and disappear into the ship.

Zeb watched her go with a sigh. His frame deflated with weariness. He glanced at the shrouded bodies and murmured an old blessing, one he hadn't voiced in so long, before following Sabine up the ladder.

The _Ghost_ was quieter now, with a number of rebels having fallen into an exhausted slumber, their adrenaline and strength evaporated. But the Ashla was no less agitated than before.

Zeb almost wanted to claw his skin off to escape the sparking sensation and the bristling of his fur. Sensing the agitation unsettled him. He didn't want to deal with this feeling, this gaping pit in his stomach that wouldn't leave him alone. He didn't want to deal with the Ashla. He had enough on his plate as he navigated through sleeping rebels, around crates filled with vital supplies, and passed Chopper, who sat out of the way, motionless and frame tilted. Whether the old astromech was out of power or trapped in his own memory, Zeb didn't know.

But he knew better than to approach.

Chopper, when startled out of an old memory, wouldn't hesitate to electrocute the person nearest him. And the scent of burning fur wouldn't help Zeb right now. It wouldn't help the injured rebels or the crew. Hera had enough trauma permeating her ship as it was; she didn't need an almost seven-foot Lasat losing himself in his own memories.

Zeb disappeared into the gunner and sealed the door behind him. He wouldn't be needed for a while and this was one of the few spots that didn't have a wounded rebel sleeping in it. He'd given up his own bunk for a Devaronian who'd lost half her leg, the aerial bombardment catching her before she'd reached the shield. Zeb didn't mind giving it up — she'd needed the bunk more than him.

But it had stung to hear her complain about the smell.

Zeb couldn't help grimacing as he climbed into the seat. He'd heard nothing but complaints from one species or another since he and his people fled Lasan. Usually, it came from Humans and other fragile species, whose scents didn't matter within their culture. He'd come to expect it from them. But it still hurt to hear it.

His scent wasn't something he could change.

It was part of him.

Honestly, Zeb was certain that the one person who hadn't complained about his scent at one point or another was Kallus, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. He wasn't even sure how he felt about _Kallus_ , let alone the inner workings of a former cog in the Imperial machine. Zeb sighed and pulled a datachip from his belt.

Stared down at it.

Growled.

Ignored the growing agitation of the Ashla.

Zeb didn't understand his having the datachip. He didn't understand his urge to download the aborted transmission from Fulcrum — Kallus — even as the Seventh Fleet bore down on Atollon and threatened to bring his entire world crashing down around his ears again. He didn't understand the immediate surge of panic he'd experienced when a blast knocked him off his feet and he'd thought the datachip was damaged. Nor did he understand the wave of relief he'd felt when the datachip proved undamaged. Zeb hadn't understood a single thing about Kallus since that stupid moon.

And now he wouldn't get the chance.

Because Kallus was dead. He was dead and gone, and Zeb would never get a chance to punch him in the face for being a fucking _idiot_. For being a noble piece of shit instead of running when he had the chance. Kallus could huddle for warmth with his _enemy_ , for the sake of _surviving_ , but he couldn't get on a fucking shuttle with Ezra.

It was stupid.

It was infuriating.

It was a dozen other things that Zeb couldn't name.

Zeb thought about inserting the datachip into the nearest port and listening to the aborted message again. Why, he didn't know. Not like it would change a single thing that happened. Not like it would bring Kallus back from the dead. Zeb reached up and rubbed the back of his head with one tired hand.

Without thinking, Zeb turned the gunner and stared back toward Atollon and the Seventh Fleet again. At least Kallus didn't have to fear being found now. He didn't have to fear a single thing. Perhaps Kallus might even find some peace now that he'd been welcomed into the arms of the Ashla and its mercy, its boundless depths of compassion and forgiveness.

Something Zeb could never give him.

Not that Kallus had ever _asked_.

And perhaps that was a good thing, Zeb mused as he returned his attention to the datachip in his hand. Perhaps it was a hint of some deeper sense of honour, buried beneath over a decade of propaganda and conditioning, and struggling to reach the surface. 

Good deeds done for the sake of absolution weren't good deeds at all. Not in his opinion. Good deeds should be done because it was the right thing to do. Because helping those that couldn't help themselves mattered. Because peoples' _lives_ mattered more than personal feelings. Good deeds shouldn't be done with a self-serving attempt to assuage whatever fucking feelings dwelled inside in mind.

A man shouldn't have to be forgiven to become a better person.

"Fuckin’ Imps," Zeb growled to himself. "Fuckin’ _Kallus_."

Stupid, awful, murderous, brave, honourable, infuriating Kallus.

Zeb scrubbed a hand over his face again. He scraped the tips of his claws over his cheek briefly, taking comfort in the slight sting across his skin. He found himself wishing Chava was with him again. Because he needed to know. He needed to know how she could find it in herself to forgive Kallus for all that he'd done and helped to do, for all the death and suffering, for all the unspoken grief that clung to those who'd survived Lasan. How she could ask about Kallus whenever he arrived on Lira San with a new set of refugees. How she could wear such a bright smile whenever she spoke of The Warrior, asking if he was happy, if he was safe and well. How her face could _fall_ when Zeb would reply, "I don't know. He's still. Ya know. With _them_."

The fucking _Warrior_.

Zeb used to be such a fervent believer in The Warrior, in its place in the ancient prophecy, but he'd thought it was _him_. He'd thought that was what Chava meant when he was a boy, when she'd sit with him in the temple and assure him of the greatness of his destiny; it was the reason he'd worked so hard to climb through the ranks of the Honour Guard. 

And then Lasan fell and Zeb was _nothing_. No destiny, no fate. No future. No Honour Guard. No Queen. No princes, princesses, and almost no people left. Slowly, even the survivors had been captured and enslaved or outright killed for their refusal to submit to Imperial rule.

He'd failed them all.

And he'd known then that The Warrior didn't exist.

That it was a lie.

That the Ashla didn't give a shit about them. About _anything_. And Zeb had turned his face away, hidden away, from himself and from the spark that used to live beneath his skin.

And then after _everything_ , Chava had the gall to tell him that it wasn't him. It was never him. Zeb was the fucking _Child_ and The Warrior was his _enemy_ ; the same fucking man who'd hunted him and stood over him with such fervour as he prepared to kill him with an appropriated weapon.

The Ashla had a cruel sense of humour, it seemed.

Zeb refrained from punching the control panel in front of him. Just. Because Hera didn't need to have her ship pummelled from the inside after its exterior had taken such a sound beating from the Seventh Fleet. Not to mention that...that creature shrouded in churning sand and lightning, who'd battered the ship with such violent fury, the name of Kanan Jarrus a curse on its tongue.

The Bendu.

The one in the middle.

Its name rang a distant bell in his mind. Like a fleeting whisper from a forgotten dream.

Zeb knew he'd have to ask Chava about it when he had a chance. He was certain she'd taught him and the other upcoming guardsmen his age about this being, this presence in the wider universe, just as she'd taught them about the Ashla and the Bogan. A small part of him wondered whether she'd sensed the creature and its fury, whether she'd sensed the death and destruction from Lira San. She'd been one of the most powerful priestesses on Lasan.

Chava had been revered for her gifts and her insight.

Priestesses from all across Lasan would travel to be in her presence, to welcome her wisdom and her teaching, and visit her ancient temple — the first temple ever built on Lasan. Even Queen Mirazet had valued her opinions above all others, falling silent whenever Chava would tap the end of her staff against the stone floor, catching the attention of all ears at the council table.

Zeb had seen it happen more than once. As Captain of the Honour Guard, he'd attended each meeting, sitting on the right of the Queen. Chava the Wise had been his mirror on the left — just as she'd been for his predecessor, Surat Tapal. Zeb could still remember his first council meeting, not long after his promotion and the retirement of his predecessor, and the unspoken fear that he wasn't good enough to take a seat at the table.

Not in the wake of Surat Tapal.

Zeb couldn't remember a time when he'd been more intimidated than when Queen Mirazet strode through the door on that first morning, her pierced ears representing her married status, and her circlet glittering in the morning light. There'd been so much power and confidence packed into a slender frame — slender for a Lasat at least. Still huge compared to females from most species. There'd been so much fire and steel in her gaze that morning, until she'd looked at him and her smile softened in warm welcome, her hand rising to beckon him closer. 

"Surat has had nothing but praise to say," Queen Mirazet had said quietly, once he'd approached and inclined his head in respect. She'd rested a warm hand on his shoulder. "Your time as Captain will be remarkable, I'm sure. You needn't fear letting us down."

_You were wrong_ , Zeb thought bitterly, his ears drooping in an instant. His heart twisted in his chest and his vision blurred sharply, earning a rumbling growl as he dashed an arm across his face. 

Queen Mirazet was wrong.

Just like Chava had been wrong. 

The Child must save The Warrior, she'd told him.

Well.

He'd fucking tried.

He'd tried when their escape pod crashed on that fucking moon and all he could smell was fear and pain from Kallus, his worst enemy, his _hunter_. He'd tried when he dragged the arrogant bastard out through the broken hatch and tossed him on the frostbitten ground. He'd tried when he'd tended to that broken leg, using the sacred weapon of his people as a fucking splint. And he'd tried when he'd let himself experience the spark for the first time since reuniting with Chava and discovering Lira San in order to figure out what the fuck he was supposed to do.

Zeb had almost recoiled when he'd looked at Kallus through the Ashla that night. Whether the reaction was from surprise or fear, he wasn't sure. But he'd never forget what he saw that night. He'd seen the rotten touch of the Bogan coursing through Kallus, poisoning him with its evil inexorably, except for this one tiny, faint flicker of pure white at the heart of his current. Zeb hadn't expected to see that flicker of white — that fading sign that the Ashla still lived in Kallus despite all that he'd done.

He'd kept the connection open the entire night.

Zeb couldn't help remembering that the flicker had grown a fraction stronger when Kallus admitted softly, almost hesitantly, that stardust gaze sliding across the distance to focus on Zeb, "On Lasan. It wasn't supposed to be a massacre."

But the smell. Karabast. The sudden and immediate scent of grief and regret that flooded the cave could have knocked a Wookie flat. Certainly, Zeb had almost choked on it.

"What happened on Lasan. It's over for me," Zeb had said without thinking, turning his face away, hiding from himself and Kallus as he lied through his fucking teeth. "I've moved on."

Of course, Zeb hadn't.

Couldn't.

A part of him would never be able to leave that battlefield. No matter how much he wanted to. He'd never be able to forget the faces, the screams, the smells, and the sights that plagued his memories and haunted his dreams at night. He'd never be able to forget the scream of anguish that tore through him as he came to and found one of the Wookies dragging him out from beneath the rubble, the broken remains of the palace, his home, his entire _life_.

He'd never be able to forget wanting to die.

Because living, surviving, was worse. Because it gnawed at him like a feral dog.

One day, perhaps, Zeb might have a chance to sit down and process all the turbulence inside him. When the Empire was dead and buried and Zeb could fucking rest. But Zeb couldn't see that happening any time soon.

Zeb bowed his head. He couldn't stop a mourning whine from rising in his throat and escaping, soft and quiet and reminiscent of his childhood. He mourned for his lost history, and his crumbling destiny, and he mourned for Kallus in spite of it all. He mourned for the moment he'd have to tell Chava what happened to Kallus. He knew she'd be devastated to hear the news. He knew her face would fall in an instant and Zeb didn't know how to deal with that. 

Zeb couldn't help wondering if someone would miss Kallus — someone other than Chava and Zeb, who still hadn't figured out his own feelings about the man. Were there people on Coruscant who'd mourn him? Would his parents heave with their wailing grief? Would his parents even _care_? Had Kallus left children and a spouse behind? Zeb had to admit he knew nothing about Kallus, nothing but what he'd experienced for himself and what he'd been told on that moon. For all he knew, Kallus could have had no one to care about what happened to him.

Certainly, having no one would have made defecting easier. 

The thought that Kallus mightn't have someone to mourn him on his homeworld didn't sit right with Zeb, if he was honest with himself. An honourable warrior should be remembered and mourned. His stomach churning, Zeb left the gunner and headed back to the cargo bay, moving silently, and popped open one of the storage panels that Hera let him use to store his collection of wood and the carving tools he'd gathered since Lasan.

Zeb had never found the strength to open the panel and use them before. He'd never found the strength to return to what he'd once loved doing when he had time to himself on Lasan. But he didn't let that knowledge stop him now. He couldn't let it stop him. Not when the spark of interest had ignited for the first time in so long. Zeb wasn't going to let the spark go to waste.

Zeb didn't have a holophoto of Kallus to work from...but he didn't need one. He could never forget that face. Besides, he knew the Ashla would guide his hands when he faltered. The Ashla was the guiding whisper behind countless artists and their inspiration even when the artists weren't aware of it. Zeb had known that since he was a boy, his spark alive in his skin and his claws sharp, twisting and turning in the fallen branches he'd collected until something magical stared back at him.

He'd been too small to use tools then.

But he wasn't now.

Zeb selected a fine block of dark wood with a good weight and tucked it under his arm before gathering his tools excitedly, if nervously, his heart thumping in his chest. His spark intensified beneath his skin and for a moment the agitation within the Ashla subsided enough for him to know it was pleased to see him returning to an old passion from his homeworld. Zeb found himself a somewhat spacious, but quiet spot and set to work at once.

Zeb lost himself in his work. He lost himself in the weight of the wood and the shape of the tools in his hand. He lost himself in the soft shavings that dropped to curl on the floor and the faint tickle of sawdust in his nose, which earned a familiar scrunch of his face for a moment or so, but the sawdust didn't matter in the long run. Nothing mattered but completing the task he'd set himself. 

Zeb wasn't quite finished when someone coughed to clear their throat and brought him out of his headspace. Fortunately, the Ashla kept his hands from ruining his work. He glanced up to see General Dodonna looking down at him in quiet wonder, his gaze fastened on the wooden relief he couldn't quite see from his angle. 

"Mind if I join you?"

"Feel free," Zeb muttered as he dropped his attention back to the relief in his hands. A large part of him did mind actually, but he knew better than to tell a superior officer as much. He set his tools down beside him and curled his hands around the relief protectively, tugging it closer, hiding it from view. He didn't like people looking at his unfinished work. Honestly, considering the subject matter, Zeb wasn't even sure he wanted to share the wooden relief when it was finished at all.

"Your work looked good from what I could see. You should be proud."

"Thanks," Zeb answered awkwardly, wanting the universe to swallow him whole and never spit him back out. He wasn't certain he could handle Dodonna looking at him like that for much longer. Like a proud grandfather — twinkling gaze and all. It was uncomfortable and strange, and Zeb didn't like it. Not at all. 

"Does Ms Wren know? I imagine she'd be pleased to have another artist on board."

"No, and I don't want her to," Zeb muttered almost to himself. 

An awkward silence fell between them then. 

Zeb continued to stare down at the face of Kallus, relieved that the wooden relief couldn't speak and make things worse. Having Dodonna sitting opposite him was bad enough. Absently, Zeb stroked a finger along the frame of the wooden relief and wondered when the elder officer would go away, and leave him alone with his stupid carving, with his confusing need to have something of Kallus linger after death.

"You cared about him."

"Excuse me?"

"Even in a carving, those mutton chops are hard to miss," Dodonna said kindly, the twinkling in his gaze softening now that Zeb was looking at him. "I'm glad someone will remember him. He deserves at least that much after what he did for us. You were friends, I take it?"

_Yeah_.

_No_.

_I guess_.

_Not how most people would view friendship_.

"We didn't kill each other, so I guess that counts for somethin'." Zeb pressed the wooden relief against his chest and hid it from view completely, uncomfortable. "He was a terrible person. But he...tried in the end. I can appreciate that."

"It isn't easy, you know. Defecting. Turning on friends and colleagues. Not after serving with them for so long," Dodonna said quietly, his arms resting on his knees as he gazed at Zeb evenly, something akin to grief replacing the twinkle. "I know first-hand how hard it is. Kallus did something that most people can't find it in themselves to do. I respected him for that when I learned he'd become a Fulcrum Agent. Plus...Ahsoka Tano wouldn't recruit someone she didn't believe in. Her word was enough for me."

Zeb blinked in surprise.

"Ahsoka recruited him? I... I didn't know that."

"Ahsoka recruited most of our Fulcrum Agents before she died. Her choices were deliberate and made with the utmost care." Dodonna paused a moment and shifted his arms slightly, folding them across his knees as he studied Zeb. "Captain Orrelios...whatever feelings the loss of Kallus has incited today, please understand that it isn't something to be ashamed of. It isn't something to hide from. Our feelings are an important part of who we are and what decisions we make. I've no doubt that sentiment helped Kallus make the decision to turn coat."

"I…"

"You don't need to answer. Just...think about it." Dodonna smiled warmly, the expression chasing the seriousness from the moment. He gestured to his wooden relief then and said brightly, his gaze once again twinkling, "Now, do you take commissions?"

"Uh."

Zeb wasn't sure what was happening, but he wasn't going to look at it too hard. He didn't have the strength to examine the writhing mass of emotion in his gut. So, with the conversation directed back to his carving ability, Zeb decided to focus on that instead. 

It was better than thinking about Kallus.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Saturday update. Later than usual, but sure, what does it matter as long as y'all get your fix, am I right? LOL

**_Location: Imperial Complex on Lothal_ **

**_Day: 1_ **

A small part of him was relieved that he didn't need a moment to adjust to the changes in lighting now. It made it easier to be hauled from the low lighting of an Imperial shuttle into the bright sunlight of Lothal. He didn't have to flinch and squeeze his lashes shut or face a stream of unbidden tears spilling down his cheeks at the sudden brightness. It was bad enough to be paraded through the complex like a piece of meat clad in a filthy, stinking uniform without tears streaming down his face. It was bad enough that he could feel the staring, dozens of gazes skittering across his face and landing on the sunken eyelids that announced what Thrawn had done to him.

The shift in atmosphere was palpable.

Alexsandr could almost taste the combination of horror and sick satisfaction that rippled through the officers and troopers dotted throughout the complex. He wanted the soil to swallow him whole. Dealing with humiliation had never been his strong suit. He could feel it burning across his face and carving a hole in the pit of his stomach. But he squared his shoulders and walked with his head held high all the same. Alexsandr refused to be less than his best.

He was a rebel now, after all.

He had the reputation of a proud traitor to uphold.

Ironic.

It seemed to take forever to reach the detention level.

Alexsandr tried to keep track of their path through the complex...but he was certain the Death Troopers were taking the scenic route on purpose to throw him off and disorient him. It wasn't surprising, given that he'd tried to escape his cell on the _Chimaera_ three times since his last fight with Thrawn. He'd almost escaped with the help of a reprogrammed maintenance droid once, its hand gripping his tight as it led him through corridor after corridor. Unfortunately, he'd escaped the cell just minutes before Thrawn arrived to interrogate him and it wasn't long until he was captured before he and the droid could bundle themselves into an escape pod.

The droid was killed in an instant.

Alexsandr could still remember the strangled sound that escaped him when its head exploded nearby, unseen but not unheard. The tearing metals. The sparking wires. The loud collapse of its frame to the floor and the sudden silence that followed. It was deafening, and heart-breaking, and Alexsandr had lashed out hard — he'd knocked one Death Trooper out cold and incapacitated another with a hard kick to the balls before the others seized and subdued him.

"Fascinating," Thrawn had murmured almost to himself. Then he'd addressed Alexsandr, his voice quiet and dangerous. "Make another escape attempt and I'll have all the droids on this ship destroyed. Starting with those from the Old Republic. Your choice, Agent Kallus."

That was the last attempt he'd made.

Alexsandr had thought about it. He'd debated the value of a machine — despite his own personal attachment to droids in general — before realising that he didn't want to be that man. He didn't want to be someone who'd debate the value of a life. He didn't want to be the one that condemned hundreds of droids to death for the sake of his own freedom. He'd condemned enough beings to death for the sake of peace and order, for a _lie_. Far too many, truth be told. Alexsandr couldn't stomach the thought of adding the weight of more lives to his conscience, organic or otherwise.

So, he'd stopped.

And he'd ignored the smug satisfaction of his captor. 

Alexsandr snapped out of his thoughts when one of his armed escorts shoved him through a door and he almost stumbled over his feet before finding his equilibrium. He turned at once, his hands bound behind him. Alexsandr was surprised when the magnetisation of his binders eased and allowed his arms to move freely, though the cuffs remained around his wrists, until one of his escorts snapped sharply, "Strip!"

Alexsandr hesitated and thought about refusing, but knew it would be more humiliating to have his escorts strip him against his will. Forcing himself to breathe evenly, he did as ordered and ripped the bar noting his former rank from his chest abruptly, tossing it aside without a care. He stripped carefully, grimacing as dried blood cracked and fluttered free. He dumped his old and unwanted uniform on the floor. Alexsandr wasn't prepared for the blast of cold water that hit him an instant later. 

It punched through him with unrelenting force. It drove him back against the wall as he tried to protect his face, tried to curl up and away, his chest and leg seizing from the sudden drop in temperature.

His leg buckled.

Alexsandr hit the floor hard. But he bit back his pained cry, knowing he couldn't risk opening his mouth. He knew the Death Troopers wouldn't hesitate to let him drown and claim that he'd died accidentally, even if it would piss Thrawn off. The temperature of the water dropped further almost as soon as the thought of Thrawn crossed his mind.

The frostbitten water stabbed through him like knives.

A spasm ran through his chest.

Alexsandr couldn't breathe. 

* * *

**_Day: 7_ **

It hadn't taken Alexsandr long to realise that no one was coming for him. No one was coming to help him break free as he'd seen rebels do for captives in the past. Not that it was a surprise. He was just an informant. It was his job to provide information for the rebels, but information never reached him in return. Alexsandr had nothing of value to keep the Empire from learning, so the interrogations were pointless. Rescuing him would be pointless and a waste of invaluable resources.

Possibly, no one even realised he was still alive.

It wasn't hard to put two and two together, Alexsandr knew. The rebels would take his aborted message and the sight of his bo-rifle in the hands of their mutual enemy, and would come to the logical conclusion: that Alexsandr had been forced to his knees at Thrawn's feet and executed without trial. Defectors, traitors, and spies didn't get trials during times of war, and the Empire was never at peace.

A small part of him couldn't help wondering whether Garazeb cared about what happened to him when he saw Thrawn wielding his bo-rifle on Atollon. Whether it had been more than just the sight of the sacred weapon that sparked his rage. But he knew that was just wishful thinking. He and Garazeb weren't friends, no matter how often Alexsandr wished it could be true.

No matter how that one night spent together changed him.

Alexsandr drew his knees close to his chest and ignored the pain that flared as he wrapped his arms around his knees. No one gave a shit about him and he couldn't blame them. He'd done this to himself. Slowly, and inexorably, he'd built his own fate through his own actions and ignorance, his own lust to prove himself a valuable asset.

A bitter smile crawled across his face.

Perhaps it would have been better to starve on the streets of Coruscant. Perhaps he might have been mourned then. He might have been forgiven for his earliest sins. The Jedi were known for holding vigils for the lives of children lost when he was a boy; he'd seen it more than once. He used to watch from a distance and wonder if the next life mourned would be his own.

But it never was.

It should have been.

If he'd never survived to join the Royal Academy, he'd never have been sent to Onderon. He'd never have been forced to take a message back to the Empire. He'd never have sparked the conflict between the Empire and Lasan. He'd never have had to face the haunted gaze of Garazeb Orrelios on that moon and he'd never have led Thrawn straight to the rebel base on Atollon.

His tear ducts heated.

Alexsandr pressed his face against his knees and inhaled raggedly, feeling a tear slip free and soak into his jumpsuit.

His fault.

It was his fault.

Even if the rebels knew he was still alive and rescuing him wasn't an enormous waste of resources, Alexsandr doubted someone would come for him. He didn't deserve their help, nor their kindness. He didn't deserve to have them risk their lives for him. Not after all that he'd done.

No, no, it was better for him to rot alone and unloved in this cell.

Alexsandr could do that much for them.

* * *

**_Day: 21_ **

Groaning weakly, Alexsandr pressed his sweating forehead against the cool rim of the toilet in his cell and wanted nothing more than to pass out where he sat. He was burning up, his entire frame hot and feverish. His ears wouldn't stop ringing, and he knew his vision would be swimming, if he'd still had that avenue available to him. He'd been poisoned. He could recognise that much even without his stomach contracting sharply, painfully, looking for something to purge and finding nothing. Alexsandr shifted slowly, carefully, unwilling to trigger another round of dry heaving, and spread-eagled across the floor, turning his face to press against the base of the toilet.

Someone didn't like his attempts to keep himself in fighting condition.

That much was clear.

Alexsandr knew he'd have to be more careful going forward — with his exercise regime and with his allotted meals. He'd have to be cautious about what he swallowed from one meal to the next. Because he couldn't afford to keep doing this, to be reduced to such a weak mess on a constant basis. He couldn't afford to keep nothing down. He couldn't afford to lose weight or muscle mass. Alexsandr couldn't afford to lose his strength.

Whoever was responsible for this, Alexsandr doubted it was the Grand Admiral. It was too messy, too uncontrolled. Far too easily, he could die from his fever, and that wasn't on the agenda. It could have been the Governor, but it could also have been a number of other Imperials in the complex.

No one was free of suspicion.

Without thinking, Alexsandr raised a weak hand and flipped the hidden camera recording him the bird before letting his hand flop back down to the floor. It wouldn't surprise him to learn whoever was responsible was watching him through the feed from his cell.

He'd have been the one watching, a lifetime ago, if their roles were reversed.

That thought had him up and clinging to the toilet in an instant as his frame convulsed abruptly, heaving around nothing but a faint trickle of acidic fluid. His hands clawed at the rim. His throat burned. His stomach ached. And tears spilled down his face involuntarily, triggered through his vomiting, the urge to call for his mother strong and getting stronger with each sharp heave.

The urge was so strong.

It made his illness, his poisoning, so much worse and so much harder to bear.

Coughing and spluttering raggedly, Alexsandr fought the almost overwhelming urge. He wouldn't call out for her and he wouldn't call out for his sister, his Mila. He wouldn't give his torturers the sick satisfaction of seeing him beg for something that couldn't be. That could never be.

Not now.

Not ever. 

Once he'd stopped heaving, and his tears began to slow, Alexsandr took a moment to calm his breathing before lowering himself back down to the floor. One hand resting over his aching belly, he threw the other across his face and let his sleeve soak up the evidence of his tears as he continued to focus on his breathing.

But thoughts of his mother, his sister, didn't leave him.

Alexsandr couldn't stop himself from indulging, from allowing his memories to come to the surface. His mouth curled around a weak smile as he recalled being ill as a boy, sick with fever, and his mother pressing a cool hand to his forehead as she held him against her.

It was strange to remember being so small when it was uncommon to find someone taller than him now. It was strange to remember staring up at his mother and thinking her so big, an entire universe held within one person as he gazed up at her sparks, her glowing circuits, hidden behind soft skin and the warmest smile in the world.

His mother couldn't see the sparks in people and within the things she touched. She couldn't see the glowing circuits. But Alexsandr could. He hadn't known how. Not at that age. He just _could_. He could see hers, and the one that glowed within his sister, and those that passed outside the window so often.

But his father didn't glow.

No, no, his father was different. His circuit was a green so dark it bordered on black. It had scared him. It had looked _wrong_ , like when Mila once brought home a mewling tooka with an oozing, infected leg, and when his father would reach out and touch his mother, that sense of wrong would filter into her circuit for a while. It would cause her glow to dim and Alexsandr had hated his father, hated that his touch did this to his mother, because his mother was wonderful and she'd deserved to glow brighter than the whole world!

A soft noise filled with pain and remorse escaped Alexsandr.

She'd deserved a better husband.

She'd deserved a better son.

_I'm sorry, Mama._

The words were an unspoken weight on his tongue. He'd never voiced them. Not once in all the time that passed since he'd lost her, since he'd lost Mila. He'd thought he should sometimes, but he'd never found the strength. Not even when he'd mustered the courage to visit her grave after he'd graduated from the Royal-turned-Imperial Academy, head bowed and the collar of his coat raised to give him some protection from the rain.

 _I'm sorry, so sorry,_ Alexsandr almost breathed. His tear ducts heated again as his tears renewed against his will. Fortunately, the drape of his arm hid them from view. He didn't want or need an audience for the emotions and memories and thoughts coursing through him. _You told me he was coming. You told me he'd found them — the hidden projects and the tools. You told me to run and I didn't listen. I froze instead. I froze and then he...and then I...and now you're gone. You're gone and Mila left me._

Alexsandr released a shaking breath. If this was where his thoughts were going, peace would be a long time coming.

If it came at all.

* * *

**_Day: 30_ **

Alexsandr bit back the scream that rose as his nerves ignited with agony, his frame convulsing, thrashing against the restraints pinning him down. The familiar taste of copper flooded his mouth as he bit down hard. But the pain in his lip was negligible next to the arcs of blue fire coursing through him as Governor Pryce watched intently, her breath quickening, her finger pressed to her datapad as she controlled the strength and duration of the electrical current. Alexsandr slumped against his bindings and panted when the current stopped at last.

Despite his panting, Alexsandr managed to say, "I thought you were a lesbian."

"I am. But the rapture of agony," Pryce replied tartly, "transcends gender."

Without warning, Pryce hit him with another round of electricity, this one longer and more intense than the last.

Alexsandr struggled to catch his breath when it ended. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest as the overstimulation wreaked havoc inside him. Painful spasms ran through his muscles. Alexsandr knew he'd have trouble standing later, let alone walking, but he tried not to think about that fact as Pryce spoke again. 

"Tell me what I want to know. I won't ask again."

"Fuck you."

"I can do this all day, you know."

"Me too." Alexsandr rolled his head in her direction and spat out a mouthful of blood with a feral grin. He heard it hit the floor with a wet splat and could almost imagine the look of disgust on her face. Pryce loved torture, but she loathed mess. She liked her torture clean. He'd gathered that much from his time working with her and wasn't afraid to use that information to get on her nerves. "Bitch."

Goading her, frustrating her, was worth the increasing pain.

Eventually, she would lose patience and send him back to his cell.

For now, Alexsandr endured. He endured the fire coursing through him. He endured the spasms that plagued his muscles between rounds. Most importantly, he endured the sound of her breathing and how it quickened with each violent arch of his body, each futile pull against his restraints, each scream that Alexsandr refused to release out of sheer stubbornness and pride.

He would never _sing_ for her.

Alexsandr soon lost track of how long he'd been in her office. How long he'd spent biting back his screams and thrashing for her pleasure. How long he'd spent forcing himself to spit barbs at her despite the increasing struggle to speak. It wasn't as though he could track the shifting shadows moving through her office, nor the rotation of the sun through the window. Alexsandr wasn't certain which was worse: knowing or not knowing.

It was a relief when Pryce gave up her pursuit of information.

Alexsandr passed out before he hit the pillow on his bunk.

* * *

**_Day 46:_ **

Alexsandr struggled to keep the balls of his feet on the floor as another faceless trooper buried a fist in his gut. He resisted the instinctive urge to curl his body, knowing it could be lethal to do so. He'd been suspended from the ceiling, and the steel collar dug into his neck painfully, minimising his intake of air. With his wrists bound behind his back securely, unable to intervene should something go wrong, Alexsandr knew he could suffocate if he wasn't careful.

Struggling to breathe evenly, he couldn't help rasping, "Is that all? Clearly, the Imperial Academies have grown lax since I left. I could give you a lesson?"

One of the troopers clocked him in the face.

Laughing raggedly, Alexsandr spat out a tooth and a globule of blood. His face hurt like a bitch and the corner of his mouth burned from splitting, but it kept him focused. It kept his thoughts on surviving, on enduring, on making it through his torture with his mind intact. It didn't matter what happened to his body, really, as long as his mind survived the ordeal.

And who knew what the future held in store?

One day, the _Phoenix Squadron_ might succeed in their plan to liberate Lothal from Imperial clutches. The rebels might find him in his cell. The rebels might even be merciful enough to free him. An almost manic smile curled his mouth at the thought of Garazeb noticing his scent spread all around the complex — fresh and alive — and bursting into the cell to say, "Karabast!"

_Karabast._

_What the fuck does that even mean?_

Obviously, it was an expletive of some description. But he wanted to know what it meant. He'd wanted to know since that night in the cave — when Garazeb kept growling the word in his ear, sending unwanted ripples of something unnameable down his spine. Garazeb never told him what it meant when he'd asked. Certainly, he'd groused that Alexsandr was heavy, but Alexsandr wasn't stupid.

Alexsandr had witnessed the ample strength in that large body, and had felt the ease with which Garazeb had thrown him out of the cave and into the snow overhead. He knew he wasn't heavy, not to a Lasat. But with his broken leg, he'd been dead weight during a dangerous situation and Alexsandr supposed it hadn't been fair to distract Garazeb with questions.

Alexsandr might have continued to reminisce about Garazeb, about that fateful night spent together, but another punch to his gut brought him straight back to the situation at hand. It winded him in an instant. It threatened to knock him off the balls of his feet. No matter how much he wanted to, Alexsandr refrained from lashing out with his foot. He refrained from kicking the hands that pummelled him. He endured each blow, endured the vibrant pain spreading across his middle, knowing the beating would come to an end before he'd succumb to his injuries.

He'd be taken to one of the medical droids. 

Thrawn wanted him alive and these troopers knew better than to ignore his orders.

Alexsandr swallowed a small huff of laughter, but couldn't stop a feral grin from stealing across his face. Blood dripped down his chin. His hands curled into fists behind his back.

 _Keeping me alive will be their undoing_ , Alexsandr promised himself. _I'll make sure of it._

* * *

**_Day: 63_ **

Alexsandr ran a hand over his aching belly, his mouth twisting with no small amount of concern. He could feel himself getting thinner, his skin tightening over his muscles, and his jumpsuit looser than he remembered. It wasn't a surprise, per se, but it was still disconcerting. He'd started eating less, aware that his meals were being poisoned regularly, though not constantly, but he often ended up throwing up half of what he did eat. Alexsandr could also feel himself growing weaker with each day; that knowledge concerned him even more.

While eating less and spending half his time throwing his guts up, Alexsandr found he couldn't maintain his exercise regime with as much fervour as before. Some attempts left him sprawled on the floor, his head spinning and his limbs like limp noodles. As someone who'd prided himself on his strength and fighting ability, this weakness was both frightening and demoralising, and the nerves he'd come to associate with weakness and being unable to defend himself were ramping up higher.

It wasn't a surprise that the dreams of Onderon returned with a vengeance. 

His hand slid upwards automatically, trembling fingers spreading across the familiar scars hidden beneath his jumpsuit. There wasn't a single Imperial that didn't know what his scars looked like. The vicious assault inflicted upon him on Onderon had been documented heavily, the disturbing images used in campaigns to promote loyalty and bloodthirst in the ranks.

Not to mention the general population within the Core Worlds.

Alexsandr released a small breath and scrubbed a tired hand over his face. He'd woken up screaming last night and the night before. And the night before that. It would keep happening, he knew, unless he could regain his strength and some confidence in his abilities to defend himself. But he knew that wouldn't happen while the poisonings continued. Alexsandr couldn't help wondering whether it was more than just spite behind the poisonings, whether it was something calculated — something designed to weaken him and increase the stress on his mental faculties in the same sweep.

It was no secret that he'd been unhinged for some time after Onderon.

He'd been a walking nightmare then — snapping at those who dared to look at him wrong, and slamming those who dared to focus on his hidden scars into walls, his mouth twisting around a feral snarl. His subordinates had soon begun to avoid him like the plague and that suited him just fine. He hadn't wanted people near him. He hadn't wanted people looking, _staring_ , at him like he was a circus animal. And if his unrestrained aggression kept people from getting closer, from worming into his affections, then that was even better.

He hadn't wanted to give a shit about his colleagues.

Not after Onderon.

Not after watching that Lasat —

Alexsandr shook his head sharply, dislodging the thoughts and images that rushed to the forefront of his mind with determination. He spent enough time seeing them in his nightmares without seeing them during his waking hours. Inhaling slowly, and almost raggedly, Alexsandr focused on the rest — on the knowledge that the wedge he'd driven between himself and other Imperials had also given him more time to focus on other things.

Things like training.

He'd spent countless hours training, making himself stronger, vowing never to be weak and helpless again. He'd trained harder than he'd ever trained before. He'd been so driven and so mindless in his pursuit of strength and speed and increased endurance that the medical droids had to intervene, had to order him to stop and take a damn break now and then. It had infuriated him...but he'd listened grudgingly, knowing the droids were just doing their jobs.

Alexsandr wished one of the medical droids would come to see him now. Just to break the silence that permeated his cell when he wasn't throwing his guts up. He hated the silence. It gave him too much time to think. It gave him too much time to dwell on things best left forgotten.

Plus, the medical droids were kind. It didn't seem to matter that he was a traitor or a spy; the droids treated him with gentleness and respect all the same. Perhaps it was just their programming, but he liked to think otherwise.

Alexsandr longed for kindness. He longed for a gentle touch and a soft voice that didn't belong to someone that wanted to see him suffer. He longed for soothing words and warmth. Not that droids were _warm_...but that was beside the point. Briefly, Alexsandr entertained the idea of running headlong into the wall and concussing himself to force a visit with a medical droid.

But he didn't want another concussion.

It was bad enough that he could feel himself growing weaker without adding confusion and distorted senses to the mix. That would be a terrible convergence of issues. If he'd been stronger in body, Alexsandr might have given the idea more consideration.

Huffing, Alexsandr turned over on his side and curled up carefully, drawing his blanket up to his chin. More than anything, he wished he could cradle his meteorite against his chest. He wished he could feel its warmth and bask in its glow. He wished he could go back to that moon so long ago, and curl up against warm fur. Alexsandr wished he could hear the rumbling breaths of a sleeping Lasat tucked against his side, wished he could feel how it once soothed him with such ease, as though Garazeb was nothing more than a purring tooka curled up beside him.

Alexsandr wished Garazeb could know how much that night meant to him. How much it affected and changed him. How much he wished to go back and experience it all over again — just so he could spend time with Garazeb, grow even closer to him. He wished Garazeb could know how much he'd wanted to accept his offer, to follow him on to the _Ghost_ and not look back. How much he'd wanted to continue fighting beside him and perhaps even become his friend.

A small laugh filled with regret escaped him.

It would never happen. He and Garazeb would never be friends. Not in this lifetime. He couldn't expect the Lasat to set aside their colourful history, after all. He couldn't expect the Lasat to forgive him. Most importantly, Alexsandr didn't want him to. He'd done things that couldn't be forgiven and couldn't be forgotten — and nor should it be. The simple knowledge that Garazeb had survived — had survived Lasan and survived Alexsandr, had survived that accursed moon and survived the cold rage of Grand Admiral Thrawn — would have to be enough.

Alexsandr never wanted the death of another Lasat on his conscience.

He had enough blood on his hands.

Too much.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> The song lyrics used in this chapter are from [Destiny](https://youtu.be/L1JyQZ65xsc) by Generdyn feat. Krigare. 100% recommend having a listen!

**_Day: ???_ **

_"Forgive me for the intrusion. I sensed something as I was passing by," said an unfamiliar voice at the door, the deep rumble travelling easily, "and I felt compelled to investigate. Would it be alright if I came in?"_

_Alexsandr peered over the top of the sofa curiously, his spark tingling with awareness beneath his skin. The person at the door was like him — but so much stronger; sensing his spark was like feeling the sun on his face in the summer. Too much and he would burn. Alexsandr didn't like burning; he ducked back down and hid his face in the cushions._

_"I don't know," Mama answered slowly, a faint tremble in her voice. Alexsandr could almost hear her gripping the doorframe. "I'm not sure that would be wise. My husband will be home soon. He doesn't like to have unexpected guests."_

_"It won't take long, I assure you."_

_"I... alright."_

_Alexsandr heard her skirts rustling, heard loud footsteps approaching, and pressed his face deeper into the cushions. He didn't want to look. He didn't want to get burned. His spark tingled harder._

_"Youngling," said the stranger kindly, coming closer and crouching to speak near his ear, "you don't need to be afraid. You won't be harmed. My name is Jaro. Jaro Tapal."_

_Alexsandr turned his head and peaked carefully, terrified of burning, but trusting that his Mama would never let someone hurt him. But when he looked at the stranger, Jaro, he didn't burn. His sparks and circuits seemed to have cooled. Sensing him no longer felt like the sun on his face, but an evening breeze through his hair instead. Alexsandr lifted his head in amazement and couldn't stop himself from blurting, "Your spark changed!"_

_Jaro, with large ears and soft purple fur, and a beard the colour of iron ore, was from a familiar species, though Alexsandr didn't know the name. It was an unusual species on Coruscant. His smile showed a hint of fang, the sharp point catching on his lip._

_"Because I'm controlling it."_

_"You can do that?"_

_"Of course," Jaro said firmly, "the Force is part of who I am and I am in control of all parts of me."_

_"The Force?" Alexsandr stared in surprise and then his gaze dropped to look at his clothes, at the simple brown robes that he often saw moving through the streets of Coruscant. He hadn't noticed the robes before, not when his unusual face caught his attention so quickly, snaring his focus. Alexsandr spotted the device at his hip and gasped loudly, scrambling closer, "You're a Jedi!"_

_"Yes."_

_"Papa said your species aren't from the Republic. Did he lie?"_

_"No, he didn't. I'm a Lasat. I was born on Lasan and I came to live at the temple here when I was a child. Younger than you are now. Both places are home to me."_

_"Oh." Alexsandr frowned in confusion for a moment and then a thought came to him without warning, and his questions bubbled forth in a rapid stream. "Am I going to be a Jedi? Are you going to take me away? Is that why you're here?!"_

_"I...don't know. I just felt like I had to come here." Jaro frowned deeply, thinking, and scrubbed at his face with an enormous hand. Then he seemed to make up his mind about something, saying, "Youngling, meditate with me. Perhaps the Force will have the answers we seek."_

_"Uh." Alexsandr glanced at his Mama. She stood in the doorway, watching them worriedly, her fingers digging into her arms. But she nodded in permission. Alexsandr returned his attention to Jaro and said brightly, "Okay!"_

_Jaro shifted to sit with his legs crossed and held out his hands._

_Alexsandr moved to sit with his legs hanging off the sofa. He wasn't quite tall enough to reach the floor with ease. He reached out and rested his hands on the open palms in front of him. His own hands seemed so small — like his hands might disappear if Jaro curled his fingers. Alexsandr couldn't help staring for a moment before letting his lashes flutter closed and exhaling, letting his frame relax as he would before tinkering with his droids upstairs._

_His spark tingled brighter almost immediately, seeking out the spark Jaro offered and connecting, their circuits becoming one. Slowly, Jaro let his own spark grow, enfolding him in his power, and Alexsandr almost gasped._

_His own awareness was growing, sharpening, and Alexsandr could almost see the sparks glowing on the other side of the city, milling around the temple. So bright and so powerful._

_Beautiful._

_Alexsandr opened his mouth and closed it when Jaro brushed a thumb across the back of his hand and said quietly, "Youngling, hush now. Concentrate with me. Let me see what we need to do."_

_He didn't know how long he held hands with Jaro. Time disappeared. Morning and evening no longer mattered as their circuits pulsed together, tendrils of glowing power reaching outwards slowly, connecting with everything and with nothing. Coruscant fell away, and his Mama fell away, until nothing remained but a circuit that stretched forever and ever, twisting and turning, looping over itself._

_Its glow continued to brighten._

_Slowly, colours and shapes began to form. Sounds floated like voices through his bathwater, his head beneath the surface._

_Alexsandr couldn't make it out._

_And then suddenly, pictures bloomed into being, changing rapidly, too fast and too confusing for him to follow, with sounds that scared and deafened him._

_Alexsandr broke away, gasping, sweat on his forehead and his lip._

_Jaro paled beneath his purple fur and scrambled to his feet almost as soon as their hands broke apart. He looked scared and that thought frightened Alexsandr immediately; Jedis weren't supposed to be scared. He scrambled off the sofa as Jaro headed for the door, yelling, "Wait! What did all those things mean? Am I going to be a Jedi or not?!"_

_"No, child." Jaro paused beside his Mama. He didn't look at Alexsandr, but his large shoulders deflated like an old ball. "Your fate lies elsewhere."_

_"But —"_

_"Youngling, I'm sorry; I have to go." Jaro did look over his shoulder then. His large green eyes glinted with something fierce, something knowing. His ears twitched as though some distant sound disturbed him. "Your spark will be with you, Alexsandr Kallus, always, even when it scares you. It is your friend. Remember that."_

_Before Alexsandr or his Mama could ask how Jaro knew his name, the Jedi barrelled out of the house in a hurry, shouldering past his Papa — who'd just come home — as he went._

_The door slid shut behind him._

_"Who the fuck was that? He looked like a Jedi." Papa grabbed his Mama roughly, his hand tight on her arm as he pulled her closer. His dark brown eyebrows knitted together in anger. "You let him in here, Maria?"_

_"N-no, Misha. Of course not. I wouldn't —"_

_"He used his mind tricks," Alexsandr said quickly, crossing his fingers behind the arm of the sofa. Lies didn't count when his fingers were crossed. Mila told him so. "Mama couldn't say no!"_

_"Is the brat telling the truth?"_

_"Yes," Mama said quickly, nodding her head at once. Her breath shook. Her red braid tumbled over her shoulder, the thick tail swinging down near her lower back. "He told me to let him in and I did it before I knew what was happening. I'm sorry; I would never let a Jedi in otherwise. I know you don't like them."_

_Papa stared at Mama for a long moment and then released her with a shove before disappearing from view, growling about weak women under his breath. He was soon heard stomping up the stairs._

_Alexsandr ran to his Mama immediately, his heart thumping, and he almost jumped into her arms as she crouched to greet him. He buried his face in her shoulder, his hand reaching for her braid automatically, his fingers tangling in the familiar locks. His Mama squeezed him tight as she whispered sharply, "You shouldn't have done that."_

_"I had to," Alexsandr whispered. His eyes started stinging. "He was going to hurt you again!"_

_"It's my job to protect you. Not the other way around." Mama covered his head and face in kisses before burying her face in his hair and inhaling a breath of his shampoo. "My brave boy; my Sasha. Don't ever do that again. You almost gave me a heart attack!"_

_"I'm sorry," Alexsandr croaked timidly, his vision blurring._

_"Come on. Let's...let's listen to some music. Would you like that?"_

_Alexsandr nodded against her shoulder and let her lead him back –_

Alexsandr woke with a ragged breath caught in his throat. His hands trembled where he gripped his blanket. He turned over roughly, hiding his face from the camera recording him. His memories and dreams were his own.

The Empire could fuck off.

* * *

**_Day: ???_ **

Another day, another beating, though the beating came with batons and electro-prods this time. Alexsandr lost count of the bones that snapped beneath each blow. He lost count of the burning punctures that pierced his middle, sending arcs of vibrant pain through his frame, and sending blood dripping down to soak into his underwear. He lost count deliberately; not knowing made it feel less real somehow, and more like a dream.

Dreams could fade.

Dreams could be forgotten.

Alexsandr liked forgetting dreams, and liked forgetting some dreams in particular. He liked waking up in the morning, whichever morning it happened to be, and not remembering a single thing — or remembering just a few dim segments that seemed so abstract. Disjointed and confused. Hollow. He liked things that were fleeting, things that didn't linger or make his hands cramp, make his muscles twitch and twitch and twitch until he felt sick and wanted to cry, or die perhaps.

Alexsandr died in his dreams sometimes, alone in the snow and cradling his meteorite against his chest with both hands. Smiling, peaceful and content. As though he'd found where he was supposed to be all along. Alexsandr remembered those dreams, held them close to his heart and cherished them.

It was odd, dreaming. 

It was odd that some dreams could leave him screaming, his voice hoarse and throat sore. It was odd that some could leave him drenched in sweat as though he'd run a marathon when all he'd done was wake up and clutch at the blankets. It was odd that some were warm and familiar, more sound and sensation than shape or colour. It was odd that some dreams were worth remembering, but some were best left to slip into the void.

The void.

His void.

His eternal companion. Shadow and emptiness, an absence of light and hope. Familiar now, so familiar. His friend and his enemy, holding his hand tight as the dreams went on and on and on with no hint of waking up in sight.

Alexsandr wanted to wake up.

He wanted the dream to end.

He wanted to forget.

* * *

**_Day: ???_ **

"You know, I'm starting to believe his claims of knowing nothing," Pryce said slowly, her voice reaching him from across the room.

One of the interrogation rooms?

Her office on the administration level?

Alexsandr didn't know. Honestly, he didn't care. He'd stopped taking note of the toing and froing some time ago, finding the effort too taxing; it was easier to keep his head down and keep his mind quiet whenever his limbs weren't too keen on walking, which was often enough now. His muscles were growing weaker each day, the ongoing poisonings making it harder and harder to keep moving, to keep active and fighting fit.

"Nothing we've done has made him open up. I thought it was just determination and bravado initially, but that ebbed after a while. Now he just claims he doesn't know. He isn't broken...just weak...resigned."

"Perhaps he doesn't."

That was Thrawn.

Alexsandr would recognise his voice anywhere.

Thrawn had been an infrequent visitor throughout his captivity; the Grand Admiral had more important things to do than spend his hours torturing Alexsandr, no matter how much the blue bastard loathed the sight of him. Undoubtedly, Thrawn was still tracking rebel activity, doing his best to hunt them down again.

Still on his knees for the Emperor.

Alexsandr almost smiled at the disturbing, if accurate thought.

"Even so, we can't be too careful. Continue as planned. Eventually, Agent Kallus will break and he will speak. He might know more than he thinks. What is irrelevant to his mind might be vital information to mine. The _Chimaera_ will be in orbit for the next month or so. I will aid with the interrogations from now on. He won't be long breaking when I'm through with him."

Alexsandr snorted for the first time in what must have been weeks, even months. 

"You find this discussion amusing, Agent?"

"Comical." Alexsandr rolled his head toward them. He'd be smirking, if he had the energy, but just turning his head sapped of him of so much strength. He deflated against the chair he was strapped to and pushed himself to keep speaking, to elaborate. "You're not a miracle worker, Thrawn. You're not going to break me. You can't. You don't know how. Fear? Pain? Fatigue? Weakness? Hunger? I've survived them all before and I'll survive them again. I will endure. You might even die before I do."

"We shall see, Agent Kallus." Alexsandr could almost hear Thrawn narrowing his eyes in cold anger and determination. "We shall see."

* * *

**_Day: ???_ **

Alexsandr sank down slowly, carefully, the muscles in his legs weak and watery, using the wall to support his descent until he sat on the floor with his legs stretching out in front of him. His jumpsuit was looser than ever, hanging off his frame. The collar slipped down his shoulder; the cold of his cell whispered across his bruised skin and Alexsandr almost flinched away, almost curled in on himself.

A moment passed and the urge faded.

He relaxed into the cold like it was an old friend.

Alexsandr tipped his head back against the wall. His head felt heavy, his loose hair weighing him down more and more. It felt unkempt and unruly, the strands a ragged mess without his gel to keep it neat and tidy, presentable. When his head wasn't tilting one way or another, his hair kept flopping down in front of his face and brushing his sunken eyelids. And for those terrible moments he was relieved that Thrawn had blinded him. That he didn't have to fret about his hair poking into places that should never be poked.

He didn't even want to think about his beard. He didn't want to imagine its wildness. 

Years of patience and meticulous grooming, gone, out the window.

Alexsandr deflated around a long sigh before drawing one knee toward him and then the other, holding them close to his chest. He bowed his head wearily, resting his face against his knees, and thought about drifting to sleep where he sat — about sleeping and never waking up, drifting into peace between one breath and the next. Alexsandr wondered what it might be like. 

Peace.

Such a foreign concept.

He'd never known the taste of it.

His life seemed like one long war — fighting to hide and fighting to survive, fighting to prove himself a good son and a better citizen. Fighting for the sake of fighting, for the fire in his gut and the hunger in his veins. Fighting to quench his thirst for vengeance and eradicate his nightmares. Fighting for the sake of his mother, sister, his…his Garazeb, whose presence in his heart defied reason. 

Garazeb.

His Garazeb.

His rebel heart.

Without thinking, Alexsandr started mumbling, the words of an old Mandalorian song falling from his lips, " _Like an anchor, you were the tide that kept me in... but even a wave will crash and end...._ "

His tear ducts heated.

It was from before the Empire, the song, when things seemed so much simpler — when the Republic protected the people and the Separatists were the enemy, the ones terrorizing countless civilisations across the stars. Alexsandr could remember the song clearly, its mournful tones rising to fame in the middle of the Clone Wars; it was a controversial number while Mandalore remained neutral during the conflict even as tensions rose within its borders.

Alexsandr inhaled raggedly, more and more words tumbling from his lips until he croaked finally, " _Like a soldier marches on, you were my battle song. Even when my strength is gone, I'm holding on_."

"Growing emotional over a love song? How fascinating."

Alexsandr snapped his head up in an instant and paled immediately; he hadn't heard footsteps approaching. He hadn't heard the door slide open. He hadn't heard Thrawn cross the threshold and hadn't felt his presence looming over him. Fear shot through him in an instant. Alexsandr said nothing, terrified of revealing more than he had during a moment of vulnerability, when he thought his own ears were his lone audience.

Clothes rustled.

A cold hand seized his jaw and gripped tight.

"Finally, you've provided some useful information. You've given me a piece of the puzzle." Thrawn spoke softly, almost tenderly, his cold breath fanning across his face and earning a shiver. His thumb brushed across his scarred lip. "I know what to look for now. How to find it — the reason why; the person that inspired this unexpected change of heart. The ISB will be eager to know when I find out who led one of their finest agents astray, who caused them so much shame and humiliation. Your rebel heart will be found and I will break it."

Alexsandr spat in his face.

Thrawn released a small sound. It wasn't a chuckle and it wasn't a huff of laughter, but it was dark and sinister.

And for the first time since his capture, Alexsandr feared that he would break.

* * *

**_Day: ???_ **

Alexsandr knew something was happening when troopers came into the cell and dragged him from his bunk roughly, forcing him to his knees and pinning him down. His heart jumped into his throat and thumped hard as measured steps entered his cell a moment later. Dread flooded his gut.

Thrawn.

Of course, it was Thrawn.

Despite what Thrawn said to the Governor, it had been almost a week since he'd last had the pleasure of his company, his cold breath fanning across his face and threats and dangerous promises dripping from his lips like venom. 

"I never expected it to be the Lasat."

Alexsandr said nothing, struggling to keep his face neutral. 

"You can stop pretending, Agent Kallus." Thrawn sounded both amused and smug, but Alexsandr tried to stop his voice from worming under his skin. He didn't want to be vulnerable. Not again. Not in front of that bastard. He didn't want to prove him right. "I know it was him. You see, I found the escape pod on the Geonosian moon. I found strands of Captain Orrelios' fur frozen in the ice and snow, preserved."

Alexsandr felt his breath catch in his chest.

Thrawn didn't hesitate to continue.

"It wasn't hard to put the pieces together after that. Your medical files and the report of the crash never mentioned a broken leg, but still the signs were there. You were injured and Captain Orrelios showed mercy," Thrawn said quietly, crouching down until his voice was just a whisper across his skin. Cold fingers tucked a lock of hair behind his ear and Alexsandr shuddered in disgust. "An agent of the Ashla and the Bogan were forced to set aside their differences and meet in the middle to survive. How poetic. You could almost be forgiven for a lapse in judgement had it stopped there."

Alexsandr felt a snarl twist his lips, but he refused to speak. With adrenaline pumping through his veins, he felt a strength he hadn't felt in so long. Alexsandr focused on his breathing, on keeping it calm and even.

"How unfortunate that Captain Orrelios wasn't one of our collaborators on Lasan." Cold fingers brushed the ridge of his cheek and Alexsandr longed to bite them off — to tear through flesh and bone and sinew and feast on the Chiss' screams. His frame tensed in preparation. Thrawn chuckled and pulled his hand away, adding, "You could be in his bed right now instead of rotting in this cell. The Empire is willing to overlook certain indiscretions when officers remain true to their Emperor." 

"Is that how Eli Vanto feels?"

The temperature in the cell dropped several degrees as Thrawn remained silent. 

Alexsandr knew he had to keep going, knew he had to say, his voice hardening, "Was that how he felt when denied the chance to rise through the ranks because of his affections for his superior officer? For sleeping with an _alien_? If the Empire can forgive such indiscretions, you must have been the one to stab him in the back."

Thrawn seized a fistful of his hair viciously, wrenching his head back and earning a pained gasp. He leaned in closer and murmured dangerously, "Tread carefully, Agent Kallus. Lasats aren't alone in their penchant for biting; you would not survive mine."

Thrawn hissed close to his ear before shoving him away, rising from his crouched position in one fluid motion.

"You're a coward." Alexsandr followed his movements closely, hands trembling with the urge to slam the bastard into the wall and squeeze his neck until bones snapped beneath his hands. "You can't face the truth. One day, you'll stop being an asset. You'll cease to matter. You'll be scrapped like the rest of us. Your mind won't be enough to compensate for the rampant intolerance in the ranks, in the _Emperor_ , and mutinous officers will be the least of your concerns."

"Your possessions have proven interesting," Thrawn said mildly, ignoring him and changing the subject in an instant. A few more troopers came through the door as soon as he spoke and Alexsandr heard them set something down — a table perhaps. "One item in particular fascinated me." 

Alexsandr heard a pair of clasps click open not too far away, and then Thrawn was approaching, bringing with him a sense of warmth that he hadn't felt in so long. His gut twisted. His breath caught in his chest. His hands clenched into fists, sending jolts of pain through his tendons and along his arms, and threatened to tear through the fabric of his jumpsuit.

Something rough and hot brushed against his face, its edges so familiar.

"Recognise it?"

"It's just a rock."

"I don't think so. I believe this is a memento," Thrawn said with quiet confidence. "You're tethered to it — to the memories it carries, and to Captain Orrelios. You cling to it in his absence. Even now, you lean into its heat."

Alexsandr said nothing, choosing instead to bite into his cheek and distract himself from the rapid beating of his heart. Not to mention the fear winding up from his stomach and through his chest. 

Thrawn pulled the meteorite away, and pulled his heart with it. 

Alexsandr couldn't help his attempt to follow, his attempt to remain close to the one piece of Garazeb he had. The troopers hauled him back with a snarl and something akin to a whimper caught in his throat.

Thrawn stepped away, moved away, his steps measured as usual. His clothes rustled with his movements. He was soon rifling through the case. When a pleased and triumphant sound carried across the cell a moment later, Alexsandr felt his fear morph into terror.

Alexsandr strained against the cruel hands pinning him down. Whatever Thrawn was planning, Alexsandr had to intervene. He had to stop him. But the troopers were relentless in their efforts to hold him down. 

Something smashed between one heartbeat and the next.

Something small and warm skittered across the floor and stopped beside his knee. It disappeared under the loose drape of his jumpsuit. 

A strangled noise escaped Alexsandr as horrible realisation coursed through him and his tear ducts heated in an instant. His meteorite. Thrawn was smashing his meteorite to rubble. He kept smashing, grunts and snarls of effort escaping, his efforts increasing with each passing moment until suddenly, without warning, he stopped. Alexsandr could hear him breathing, the sound quicker than he'd ever heard it before.

Thrawn approached then.

Something soft and fine rained down over Alexsandr, catching in his hair and staining his face, mixing with the tears slipping down his face. Alexsandr choked on the sob that rose in his throat.

"Captain Orrelios is next."

And then Alexsandr was alone, left to shake and sob in his cell as he realised what he'd done. What he'd set in motion when Thrawn caught him whispering the words of an old song. He'd dragged Garazeb into this nightmare and the Lasat didn't even know. He had to do something. He had to…he had to warn him. He had to give him a fighting chance to survive when Thrawn came for him.

But how?

_You know how_ , whispered that rumbling voice at the back of his mind. The voice of his conscience, softer now than ever. _You have to let the fear go — just for a moment. You have to let the spark in. Remember what Jaro said: it will be with you always, even when it scares you._

"I can't." Alexsandr choked on the words, his hands rising to grip his hair tight as panic surged in his chest. Dust from his meteorite fell to his shoulders and slipped down his jumpsuit. It tickled and horrified him in equal measure. " _I can't_."

_You can. For Garazeb._

"For Garazeb."

Alexsandr scrabbled at the floor, searching for the fragment of his meteorite that skittered under the drape of his jumpsuit. His fingers curled tight around its heat and jagged edges when he found it. His palm stung as the sliver dug into his skin. Alexsandr bowed his head and brought his fist to rest against his lips. 

"For Garazeb," he breathed again. 

Alexsandr reached inside himself and opened the door he'd slammed shut so long ago.

He let the spark in.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another chapter!
> 
> This chapter and the next few to follow will be from Zeb's POV.

Zeb woke with a start and almost cracked his head off the top bunk. Panting heavily, he scrambled out of bed and dressed quickly, almost falling over himself in his haste to get into his battlesuit. He soon stumbled out into the corridor, his ears pricked for the sound of Kanan and Hera. Zeb ran for the galley, where he found them sitting close together at the dejarik table and murmuring quietly, softness apparent in their fixation upon each other.

Ezra sat nearby, polishing his latest helmet.

"Kanan!"

"Zeb?" Kanan snapped his attention toward him immediately, the action almost unnerving with his mask in place as usual. His mouth turned down in concern. "You okay, buddy? You sound —"

"I... I think I had a vision." 

"A vision?" Ezra paused in his polishing, surprised. His head tilted and an expression somewhere between abject disbelief and amusement crossed his features less than a heartbeat later. "You're not a Jedi. You sure it wasn't a nightmare? Or just a weird dream?"

Zeb snarled immediately, his fur bristling, and felt his fear come back with a vengeance as the images from his dream flickered across his mind again. His ears flattened against his head. His claws stung his palms as he curled his fists. He knew what a fucking nightmare felt like and he knew that he'd never experienced something like this before. Zeb wasn't sure he could fucking handle Ezra being Ezra right now.

"I know what I saw!"

"There are more paths in life than Sith and Jedi." Hera spoke soothingly, rising from her seat at once and resting a calming hand on his arm. She shot a stern look at Ezra as she led Zeb to the table. "A lot of cultures have dedicated teachings and positions connected to the Force. The Honour Guard is one of them. Ezra, I believe Chopper could use a hand with repairs."

Ezra opened his mouth to argue.

"Go," Kanan said in a tone that brooked no argument. "You heard Hera."

Ezra set down his helmet with a huff and stomped off.

As soon as Ezra left the galley, Zeb felt some of his nerves fizzle. Speaking about what he saw would be easier without the kid around. He released a shaking breath and ran a hand over the back of his head and neck.

Hera moved her hand down to cover his and squeezed lightly, her green gaze warm with concern and encouragement. He felt like a small boy, briefly, and couldn't help the warm tug in his heart. She'd reminded him of his mother from the beginning, though he'd never been able to admit it aloud.

"You're certain it was a vision?" The question brought his attention back to Kanan an instant later. Kanan stared at him through his mask — unseeing and still knowing, connected to the Ashla on an almost constant basis now. "You've had them before?"

"No, never." Zeb shook his head. The claws of his free hand clicked against the table as he set it down. "On Lasan...our priestesses were our seers. Their connection to the Ashla was stronger than ours and Chava was the strongest of them all."

"Alright." Kanan released a small breath and gestured with his hand. "Tell me about it."

"I saw Kallus," Zeb breathed. "He was askin' for help."

Hera blinked in surprise.

Kanan tilted his head a fraction.

"I know it sounds crazy," Zeb rushed to say, his heart thumping, "but I know what a nightmare feels like and it wasn't one of them." His voice dropped to a strained whisper as the images flicked across his mind again. "He looked so sick and so thin. And so weak. Like a breeze could knock him over!"

Hera tensed in an instant. Her hand tightened around his reflexively, and something haunted flickered across her features. Zeb knew why; the whole crew knew what happened to her people during the Clone Wars when she was a child. What the Separatists did to them.

"Go on."

"Kallus looked like a prisoner. He was wearin' some sort of jumpsuit and it was almost hangin' off him. Could see his shoulders covered in bruises — old and new. He was a fuckin' mess. I couldn't see his face properly, not with his hair in the way, but he was sobbin'. Just askin' for help over and over. Even with a broken leg, hangin' from the ceilin' and about to die, I never heard him ask for help on that frozen moon. Not once."

His ears drooped.

"What if we were wrong? What if Thrawn didn't kill him?"

"Zeb," Hera said slowly, almost hesitantly, her gaze softening further, "that was almost seven months ago. You know how slim it is that he'd be left alive for this long. He had nothing to give them to make it worth it. Is it possible that Ezra was right? Or that it might be a case of wishful thinking? You told me it was like a punch to the gut to see Thrawn wielding that bo-rifle on Atollon. It would be understandable to want to see it returned to Kallus, after surviving that moon together, Zeb."

"I believe him."

"Kanan —"

"Hear me out." Kanan raised a hand and Hera subsided with uncertainty; it was obvious that she was torn between trusting in the Ashla and trusting her own reasoning, her logic and her gut. "Zeb and Kallus didn't just survive together on that moon. Zeb set him on a new path. He saved Kallus' soul. Something like that can forge a powerful bond between two people. And if Kallus is still living, and has asked for help, it would make sense for that plea to come to Zeb through the Force. The Force uses our personal connections all the time. That was how we found Ryder, remember?" 

"I remember." Hera tipped her head. Her brows furrowed in thought. "We'll need to find out where Thrawn is keeping Kallus, and start planning from there."

"He'll be in the complex on Lothal." 

Hera and Kanan sighed in the same instant as Zeb snapped his head up to find Ezra standing in the doorway, Chopper at his heels.

"Kid —"

"I'm part of this crew too and I deserve to know what I'll be getting into." Ezra huffed and scowled across his folded arms, his frustration more than apparent. "I might not like Kallus, but I respect him after what he did — choosing to remain where he was because he thought he could do more good. I respected him even more after he warned us about Thrawn. Lothal is their hub in the sector and it would make sense to keep Kallus there, if Thrawn or Pryce are interrogating him. I want to help. Kallus is one of ours and we protect our own."

"If Kallus is being held there," Hera said quietly, "then we'll need more than the four of us to free him. We should head back to Yavin and get Rex. And we could talk to Dodonna about getting a few volunteers together."

"Dodonna is a nice guy," Zeb said sharply, scoffing, "but we both know there'll be no volunteers to help Kallus. He hurt a lot of people in his time with the Empire and I don't blame them for their sore feelings. With Sabine and Rau back on Mandalore, it'll end up bein' just us and Rex as usual."

"Fair point." Hera sighed and rubbed her forehead. "Honestly, this couldn't come at a worse time. With that blockade in place, I'm not sure how we'll even get in and out of Lothal without being detected. We'll need a miracle."

"What we need is to trust in the Force," Kanan said firmly, resting his hand on her shoulder and squeezing. "Zeb was shown this vision for a reason. It wouldn't choose us, if we couldn't find a way, Hera."

"Chopper, set a path back to base. Two or three jumps should do."

_Right away, Boss_ , Chopper warbled before disappearing down the corridor, laughing and waving his metal arms in obvious excitement.

Zeb watched him go, both unnerved and amused at the sight. Most likely, the murderous rust bucket was fantasising about electrocuting and beating Imperial officers with glee. As long as Chopper remembered Kallus was on their side, Zeb didn't care what the old astromech did on Lothal.

_Kallus is alive_ , a voice whispered through his mind It was small and hesitant and familiar, a voice he'd learned to listen to since joining the _Ghost_. The voice didn't appear too frequently, but he'd learned to appreciate when it did. Hope sparked within his chest at the sound of it. _You didn't fail again. You still have a chance to save him. Don't let it go to waste._

"I'm goin' to get ready," Zeb said quickly, rising from the bench and disappearing back into the quarters he shared with Ezra. He glanced at the wooden relief he'd hung on the wall adjacent to his bunk and felt a surge of something unnameable, something he didn't understand. He wasn't sure he _wanted_ to understand. Zeb shook his head and began donning his armour, buckling the familiar pieces into place with practiced ease.

Zeb could don armour in his sleep. He'd had the process drilled into him since he was the tender age of twelve, his fastidious mentors pushing him to be faster and more efficient with each attempt. He'd needed to be, if he ever wanted to fulfil his dream of becoming Captain of the Honour Guard. Of course, he wore far less armour now than when he was running drills as a boy; he'd been limited to whatever pieces he could grab and throw on while running to muster his sleepy, confused cadets when Lasan came under siege. Zeb was forced to leave his ceremonial armour and more behind when the Wookies helped him escape the surface.

His heart panged at the thought.

Too easily, Zeb could remember donning that armour for his promotion ceremony, how his chest puffed with pride when he'd seen his reflection in the mirror. How his grandmother cried with happiness, her wizened hands clasped in front of her face as though she'd been thanking the Ashla. How his brothers and sisters showed him the respect of a warrior, inclining their heads with hands curling over their opposing fists.

He'd almost cried at the sight.

For so long, his elder siblings had been an inspiration to him. He'd wanted to earn their respect and their pride in him. And when Queen Mirazet informed him of the impending opening and offered him the captaincy, he had. He'd ceased to be just their kid brother and had become their superior, their commanding officer, and where some might have shown resentment or bitterness...from his siblings, Zeb had received nothing but respect and love and congratulations.

And far too easily, Zeb could also remember Surat Tapal in his sombre robes of black and muted grey, still mourning the loss of his brother, Jaro. His twin. It had been both strange and discomfiting to see Surat stepping down while still a formidable warrior, but his loss had changed him. There'd been an air of defeat around him that hadn't existed before. There'd been an emptiness in his gaze and a heaviness in his step that few on Lasan could fathom.

Twins were such a rare sight among Lasats.

Surat had done the right thing, of course, in stepping down. He'd lost the drive to teach and train and lead that had made him such an exquisite captain — and such a force to be reckoned with.

Still...his warriors, and his cadets, had mourned his decision. 

Zeb had mourned his decision even as he'd respected it.

Zeb shook his head now and dislodged the memory; he couldn't afford to get wrapped up in the past. Not now. Not when he had to prepare for the upcoming mission. He grabbed his standard belt and secured it around his waist before retrieving his old weapons belt from one of the drawers under his bunk. Zeb held the belt in his hands briefly, running his fingers over the familiar lettering, the ancient words pleading for the gift of strength and perseverance from the Ashla embroidered into the strong leather.

He hadn't worn it in so long. 

Not since Lasan.

Zeb drew in a deep breath and strapped it across his torso diagonally, feeling its comforting weight settle with the same ease as it used to. He almost felt like his old self again. Just for a moment. Zeb drew in another deep breath and clipped his bo-rifle to his back before heading down to the cargo bay, clipping as much extra munitions to his belts as possible.

Thermal detonators.

A pair of vibroshivs.

And so much more.

He'd need them on Lothal. More so, now that Sabine was on Mandalore.

Zeb wasn't going to leave this to chance. He wasn't going to fail again. He wasn't going to leave Kallus rot in captivity, bruised and battered and verging on broken. As muddled as his own feelings still were, Zeb knew Kallus didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve to be abandoned after risking life and limb for the rebellion. Zeb would get him out or die to ensure his escape from the complex.

Failure was not an option.

Not this time.

Once he'd armed himself with as much as he could carry, Zeb bowed his head and murmured a fervent prayer, asking the Ashla to give Kallus the strength to hold on until Zeb could retrieve him. His words dripped from his lips in his native tongue, his voice rising and falling in a familiar cadence. His fingers curled around his weapons belt to keep himself grounded to the present.

Zeb then returned to the galley, where Ezra almost choked on a biscuit at the sight of him.

"Isn't that a bit extreme?"

"No," Zeb snapped sharply, his lips curling around the beginnings of a snarl. One of his fangs snagged on his lip. His fur bristled in an instant. Zeb couldn't help tugging at his belt a moment later. "Actually, I feel like I don't have enough."

"Hey, you're not going into this alone." Ezra clapped him on the arm and let his hand linger for a moment. "You'll have two Jedi and Rex too. Not to mention the best pilot in the rebellion. You don't have to turn into a weapons depot just to help Kallus. We have the Force on our side."

Zeb shrugged away, dislodging his hand. He knew he had all that. Of course, he did. He wasn't stupid and he didn't need a kid reassuring him like he was a small child. As the elder, more experienced warrior, it was _his_ job to reassure Ezra. 

Karabast.

How did these things get so fucking messed up?

Zeb settled down at the dejarik table and waited impatiently, wishing the jumps to the base could be shorter, quicker. But he knew it was best to take a circuitous route. The Rebel Alliance couldn't afford to have another base discovered so soon after losing Atollon. Unfortunately, Zeb hated waiting, hated the slow trickle of time passing by, and had hated it since he was a child.

But he'd learned to endure it.

He'd had to.

As a warrior, waiting occupied a huge chunk of his job. Waiting for acknowledgement from a superior and waiting for a signal. Waiting for a target to move into the most optimal location and waiting for reinforcements. So much waiting. So much time trickling by, disappearing, the importance of brief inaction outweighing the urge to drive forward and ease the tension building in his gut.

Zeb released a breath and let his lashes flutter against his cheeks as he remembered the techniques Chava taught him as a child.

He remembered the feel of sand tickling between his toes and remembered the cool rush of water sweeping past his ankles. He remembered the taste of brine in the air, the sound of gulls overhead. He remembered the gentle breeze whispering through his fur and the quiet voice of Chava near his ear, instructing him to focus on his breath — on the slow expansion of his chest as he drew in a lungful of air, on the building pressure as he held that breath carefully, and on the release of tension in his muscles as he let that breath escape slowly, measured and controlled.

Chava had been a constant presence in his life until the fall of Lasan. She'd been the one to train him to slow down and wait — to think before acting, before running headlong into whatever issue popped up in front of him. She'd told him it would be an important tool when he began his training to be an Honour Guard and she was right.

She'd been right about a lot of things.

Not that he'd ever told her as much.

It had been hard enough to learn how to slow down and think first and act later without admitting she was right — about waiting, about the prophecy, about all the things she'd taught him.

_"_ Hope is never gone," Chava once said to Zeb, leaning on her staff as she'd stood at the edge of the temple staircase, watching the wind rustle through the purple and pink and blue leaves in the trees. And then she'd glanced down at him and smiled. "Just misplaced. A person can find it again. Always."

Too easily, Zeb could remember what led to that discussion. How he'd been knocked on his ass again and again when he'd tried to defend his family, their honour, from the vicious jeers of his peers. The hurt and anger he'd felt as he fled to the temple, battered and bleeding, tufts of fur missing, and the tears that spilled when Chava looked up from the text she'd been reading. 

"Garazeb," Chava had said in surprise, setting the text aside and climbing to her feet in an instant. She'd opened her arms to welcome him just moments before he'd ploughed into her, a sob catching in his throat. "Dear boy, what happened?"

Zeb hadn't been able to speak. Not at first. Not with the ghost of those cruel jeers still fresh in his ears. He'd just cried himself hoarse as she'd held him to her, arms warm and secure and familiar. And Chava had let him cry; she'd let him expel all of his emotions into the fabric of her robes, staining the soft green and orange material with his tears.

When he'd finally, _finally_ , managed to speak up, the explanation had come out between hiccoughs in a rush of almost incoherent words. He'd babbled about Luros Ustana, about his gang of snarling friends, about the monstrous words thrown at him like knives — not to mention the cold malice framed with russet fur, remarkable in its rareness. He’d babbled about the cruel suggestion that his parents deserved their illness, deserved to lose their sense of self and waste away, memories of their loved ones disappearing into the void. The suggestion that it was a punishment from the Ashla for refusing to fight when a schism in the noble households threatened to tear their planet apart — for refusing to be warriors and serve their monarch as their parents had before them.

The suggestion that being an Orrelios was to be a disgrace.

A cold smile curled his lips now as Zeb remembered Luros, remembered his growing thirst for bloodshed and violence. He remembered the morning he'd found the bastard attempting to force a mating mark on one of the cadets, and he remembered the cold rage that flooded his gut at the sight. He remembered the roar that escaped him and the pounding of his blood as he'd collided with Luros, knocking him off the cadet and sending him crashing to the floor. He remembered the cadet scrambling away, crying, bleeding where lethal claws had gouged through his practice armour.

Zeb remembered fighting, tooth and nail. He remembered feeling so much smaller, and so much weaker, and fighting anyway; he'd used all the skills he'd learned from Chava and Surat as he'd faced Luros, faced the Lasat who'd defeated him time and time again. And he remembered defeating Luros, remembered dragging him before the Queen and her council. He remembered the moment Queen Mirazet ripped the rank insignia from his armour before striking the bastard viciously, ripping his face open with her claws, making his shame known to all Lasats that encountered him — no matter where he went.

From that moment forward, being a willing associate of Luros Ustana was to be a disgrace on Lasan. There wasn't a Lasat who'd look at him — let alone speak to him. Whatever respect he'd earned for himself evaporated when he'd assaulted that cadet. He'd lost the right to call himself a warrior, to consider himself one of them.

It was what he'd deserved.

Zeb scrubbed his face. He didn't want to think about Luros, about the poor cadet that suffered at his hands — who'd born the scars from the assault until he died an Ensign during the Imperial siege, screaming as his fur charred and his flesh dissolved into steaming ash as he and his squad of cadets tried to protect civilians from the ion disruptors. He didn't want to think about the morning he'd witnessed Luros boarding a freighter and fleeing the surface, disappearing without warning, running from the constant reminder of his shame. Zeb didn't want to think about where the bastard was now, though he couldn't help having suspicions ever since Kallus told him about Onderon.

If that Lasat proved to be Luros, it wouldn't surprise Zeb in the least.

Zeb hadn't asked Kallus about the Lasat on Onderon. A small part of him hadn't wanted to force Kallus to relive something so traumatic, but a larger part of him hadn't wanted to confirm his suspicions. He'd settled for informing Kallus that not all Lasats were like the one who'd slaughtered his incapacitated squad.

Most of them weren't like that.

His people had an honour code woven into the fabric of their lives.

While some crimes were forgivable, even negligible, and the perpetrators of such could be redeemed after a period of detention or service within their local community, the actions of Luros and the Lasat on Onderon were not. Their culture was built on a foundation of respect and integrity, and those who broke the code to such a heinous degree were a shame to their people. 

Zeb bowed his head and sighed. It wasn't a surprise that his thoughts kept circling back to the weight of shame and the ideals of respect and integrity, given his upcoming mission to rescue Kallus. But circular thoughts wouldn't help him now. Determinedly, he dragged his thoughts back to Chava and the techniques she'd taught him. He let the tension in his muscles fade away, let his thoughts fade away, until nothing remained but his breath and the spark of his current beneath his skin. Zeb lost himself in these things, and soon lost track of time.

It surprised him when the _Ghost_ tilted in a familiar fashion and it didn't take long to realise the crew had reached their destination at last. 

Zeb rose from his seat and moved to the nearest viewport. He watched the changing scenery, the trees and winding rivers passing below, and couldn't help the small smile that curled his lips when a flock of startled whisper birds took flight and scattered around the ship. Their wings shimmered with their graceful movements. It almost reminded him of home and that brought his thoughts straight back to Kallus and the impending rescue. Zeb sighed and waited until he saw the temples in the distance before turning away, heading for the cargo bay, his urgent sense of anticipation returning as the Ashla sparked through and around him with equal fervour.

The Ashla seemed to want Kallus free and safe as much as Zeb did. 

Rex was waiting for them when the ship landed gently, settling with familiar ease. The engines hissed with weariness as the ramp lowered and Zeb bounded down to clap the old clone on the shoulder, almost grinning when Rex grunted and almost buckled from the force. It was stubbornness alone that kept Rex standing, though he glanced at the unfamiliar weapons belt Zeb wore with some concern.

"Is there something I need to know?"

"Kallus is alive!"

"I... find that hard to believe."

"Yeah. Well. You're goin' to eat those words when I prove it."

"Right…" Rex spoke slowly, throwing another concerned look at him before returning his attention to the _Ghost_ crew disembarking from the ship. He activated the datapad held in his hand in preparation for the usual report he gave whenever Hera returned to base, but blinked in surprise when Hera forestalled him with a raised hand.

"The report can wait." Hera shook her head and continued on her way, beckoning him to follow her, which Rex did without question. Zeb and the others fell into step with them at once as Hera added quietly, her voice just loud enough for them to hear over the sound of various repairs taking place nearby, "I'm sure Zeb has mentioned the developing situation already, so I won't state it again. We'll need to get clearance before we go, so I'm going to discuss it with Dodonna now. He'll be our best bet. You and the others need to start brainstorming in the meantime."

"Where _are_ we going?" 

"Lothal."

"Shit."

"Yeah. That's how I feel about it too, Rex." Hera rubbed her forehead in frustration before tossing a lek back over her shoulder. "So, we'll need a few decent plans prepared before we even leave base or we won't have a chance of passing that blockade. Get it done."

"Yes, Sir," Rex answered with a respectful tip of his head. 

If Hera was irritated with the formality, she didn't show it. Zeb wasn't surprised. He knew she'd have a lot on her mind now, knowing her crew would be venturing into such a dangerous area of space soon enough. A lesser Twi'lek might have been close to ripping their lekku off from the stress, but not their Hera. Instead she quickened her pace and soon left them in the dust as she made a beeline for Dodonna in his office.

Rex headed in the other direction with a determined spring in his step.

Zeb didn't hesitate to follow and Chopper was hot on his heels, zipping along and almost bursting with excitement. Ezra and Kanan brought up the rear, the latter speaking in a low murmur about the vision and the former listening closely, catching up on the parts he'd missed when Hera sent him off. Zeb tuned them out easily; he didn't need to rehash the vision again.

It wasn't something he could forget.

Zeb had never seen Kallus look so vulnerable before, nor so breakable, not even when the pair of them were trapped on that moon. Seeing Kallus like that wasn't right. Kallus was supposed to be strong and ferocious, a dangerous predator at all times — not sobbing on his knees, covered in bruises and abrasions. Just the idea of Kallus being reduced to tears and desperate pleas made something curl hot and unbidden in his chest. It tinged the edge of his vision with red and that was dangerous — for him and his crew. Not to mention Kallus.

His hands curled into fists.

His claws stung his palms. 

Zeb dragged in a calming breath. He couldn't let that tinge of red get the better of him now or ever, no matter how much he hungered to tear the people responsible for Kallus' treatment to bloodied pieces. No matter how much Zeb hated the Empire, and no matter how much the vision of Kallus made him tense with growing fury, Zeb couldn't let the Bogan sink its claws into him. 

He couldn't let the current flowing through him be tainted with such evil.

It wasn't long until the five of them were sitting around a table in one of the various conference rooms, the door sealed with a code that no one outside of their crew would know. It would allow Hera to join them after her meeting with Dodonna while keeping other ears from learning the plans being discussed. It was a precaution Zeb had suggested to High Command not long after losing Atollon and it had been rolled out through the other teams on the base soon enough.

He was head of base security, after all.

Not that Zeb believed that spies had infiltrated the fleet.

But he couldn't afford to have even a fraction of their plans leave the conference room without permission. He couldn't afford to have them leave the surface. Not now. There was too much at stake. If even a whisper of what the crew were planning reached Thrawn somehow, it would be all over. Kallus would be killed or moved to a different location in a heartbeat and Zeb would never get another chance to free him.

Zeb couldn't let that happen.

And so, the crew planned in secret.

Rex and Zeb had the most experience with planning and strategizing, given their histories in the military, but Kanan was a close second from his time as a Commander in the Clone Wars. Ezra had far less experience, but his thoughts were often quite innovative — an asset when it came to thinking outside the box. It was also an asset when things didn't quite go to plan. Zeb supposed it stemmed from his time living on the streets, having to think on his feet to survive.

Fortunately, Ezra was on their side and not the enemies'.

"A few times when I was younger, the power grid overheated and the power went out across the city," Ezra said as he leaned back on his chair, balancing his weight on its back legs. He frowned and fiddled with his lightsaber as he spoke. "Including the complex — until the officers got the internal power back up and running at least. If we could replicate a general power outage, we'd have a greater chance of getting across the grounds without being spotted. Not all of us can impersonate troopers."

"Yeah. But that won't help us unless we get past that blockade," Zeb pointed out.

Ezra opened his mouth.

"Don't even _go_ there, kid." Rex shot Ezra a _look_ and Ezra scowled back at him as Rex continued quietly, "We're _not_ getting Hondo or his associates involved in this. He's as good a pirate as any, but I _do_ want us to get out of there alive. I don't want to have to watch him to make sure he doesn't sell us out for a profit. You know how much credits a single one of us would be worth?"

Ezra opened his mouth again. 

Chopper smacked the leg of his chair with a metal arm and Ezra lost his balance almost immediately, toppling to the old stone floor with a crash and a grunt of startled pain. His lightsaber went skittering across the floor and under the table. The old astromech dodged the kick Ezra aimed at him in retaliation and laughed as he rolled away, moving to slip between Rex and Zeb instead.

"One day, Chopper," Ezra threatened as he summoned his lightsaber back to his hand and climbed to his feet. He righted the chair with a grunt of frustration and plonked back down onto it with a scowl. "One day, I'm not going to miss and I'm going to fucking kick you into next week."

The response the astromech gave was too crude for even Zeb to repeat.

Zeb bowed his head with a snort of laughter as Kanan — who almost sounded scandalised — scolded the droid in the absence of Hera. Rex tried not to grin over his datapad and failed. But the distraction seemed to have worked: Ezra didn't begin to suggest involving Hondo in the plan again — which was a relief. Zeb didn't trust Hondo Ohnaka as far as he could throw him.

And Zeb wanted to _throw_ the old bastard into a brick wall whenever Hondo showed his damned face. It didn't matter that Hondo was the Fool or that his existence helped his people discover Lira San. Zeb was still sore over the last time Hondo made an appearance.

The fucker sold them out!

And Ezra still trusted him like an idiot.

Zeb shook his head and huffed as irritation flared within him. Honestly, he'd never met a kid more frustrating than Ezra fucking Bridger, and he'd dealt with a lot of fucking kids in his time as Captain of the Honour Guard — between his cadets and the civilians under his protection. Not to mention the kids he'd helped out of scrapes since he'd joined the _Ghost_ crew. But Ezra was something else.

Couldn't live with him.

Couldn't live without him either.

Karabast.

Zeb wasn't sure when he'd gotten so attached to the damn kid. He hadn't tried to. It just sort of happened. It was like slipping on wet leaves and falling into some poison ivy, and getting a rash under his fur. And it itched, and itched, and _itched_. And when the rash was gone, it was a relief and it was _weird_ because the urge to scratch still lingered. And he'd almost be tempted to jump into the ivy, just so that the itch would be real instead of a figment of his imagination. That was what it had been like when Ezra and Kanan returned from Mandalore and Zeb had dived back into their company, the kid getting on his nerves all over again.

"C'mon. We need to focus," Zeb said gruffly, pushing his confused and irritated thoughts to the side. His claws clicked against the tabletop to get their attention. "Kallus needs us to get through that blockade. Kanan? Any ideas?"

"Well…" Kanan scratched his beard thoughtfully, though he didn't seem too confident in his thoughts. His mouth turned down. "I suppose we could…"

The planning continued without incident and Zeb was relieved. He knew Kallus couldn't afford to have them get distracted again. It was one thing for Chopper to distract Ezra from a terrible idea. It was another to lose himself in his own thoughts and let time trickle by, wasted. Kallus needed them to be sharp and focused on getting through that blockade, on getting down to the surface and into the Imperial complex. Kallus needed them at their finest. And Zeb would make sure the crew were.

It was the least he could do for Kallus, for the man who'd driven them to discover Lira San without even knowing it. For the man who'd helped a few scared pilots escape the Empire to fight for the rebellion and who'd sacrificed his freedom to warn them about Thrawn. For the man who, against all odds, met his gaze without flinching on that frostbitten moon and shot the bonzami in the face, freeing Zeb from its clutches and preventing him from becoming dinner.

Zeb wouldn't be alive without Kallus and that meant something.

It meant something to both of them.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> I'd like to give a special shout-out to Kage Sennan who asked if they could make some fanart based on chapter six and who gave me permission to share it with y'all. You can find the art on their [tumblr](https://kagesennen.tumblr.com/post/629831404995346432/ive-been-reading-sightless-bird-by), so please show a little love!
> 
> A Warning Though: the art is a Bit Creepier than the actual scene it was based on, as Kallus was drawn with his eyelids open, so view at your own discretion please!!

"Dodonna gave us the green light. And he instructed us to take some extra medical supplies with us. Just in case." Hera made the announcement as she soon as she sealed the door behind her, separating them from the rest of the base again. Her lekku swung with her movements as she approached the table. "How are the plans coming along?"

Zeb and Rex shared a strained glance and Kanan grimaced. Ezra huffed and folded his arms across his chest. Even Chopper deflated miserably, disappointed with their plans so far.

"Honestly," Rex said slowly, "the plans we've come up with for getting into the complex are almost solid. The ones for getting past the blockade? Not so much. Those ones are terrible and risky, and some are far riskier than others. I'm not sure we can accomplish this without outside help."

Hera sighed and opened her mouth to reply, but fell silent when the intercom on the wall announced crisply, " _Ghost_ Crew, report to central command. We have an incoming holotransmission for Captain Garazeb Orrelios marked urgent."

Zeb blinked in surprise upon hearing the message and then grimaced as all the attention in the room swivelled in his direction. He jumped out of his seat and headed for the door to escape the weight of their scrutiny, their curious frowns. He didn't know who'd be contacting him. No one knew where he was except Chava and the other rebels on the base. Zeb doubted Chava would have something so urgent to tell him that it couldn't wait for his next visit.

The crew followed behind him.

Dodonna and a few communications technicians were waiting when Zeb and the others arrived at central command. It wasn't a surprise to see concern on their faces. This was...unusual...and that it coincided with their intention to rescue Kallus unnerved Zeb completely, leaving his frame tight with growing fear. Dodonna nodded at one of the technicians and the holotransmission was allowed through — though the coordinates of their exact location were kept scrambled.

A man in his late twenties, or perhaps early thirties, materialised over the command table and glanced at them all in turn. He was handsome and the likeness to Kallus was striking, between the thickness of his hair, the shape of his eyes, and the smoothness of his skin. But he was too young and lacked the signature mutton chops that made Kallus' appearance so distinctive. 

As soon as he saw Zeb, the man smiled. He curled one hand into a fist and covered it with the other before bowing slightly, offering the respect of a warrior; a mark of respect that hadn't been shown to outsiders often.

Zeb could list the outsiders who'd been shown the sign on one hand and half of those outsiders were people he'd encountered personally, on Bahryn and on Lasan. And since this wasn't Kallus, then it had to be:

"Cal Kestis," Zeb said suddenly, earning a strangled gasp of shock from Kanan and a thoughtful hum from Dodonna. The Jedi took an unbalanced step backwards and Zeb couldn't blame him for the reaction in the slightest.

His own heart jumped into his throat and lodged there.

Cal Kestis was just a child the last time he'd seen him — happy, excited to see the homeworld of his master, and so eager to learn more about their culture. It had endeared him to a number of the experienced guardsmen. Not to mention Chava and the other priestesses at the temple, who'd fussed over him as soon as he'd arrived on the surface.

Zeb had thought the child perished with Jaro and he wasn't alone. The guardsmen had drunk to their honour, toasting their names and their deeds, and sharing anecdotes from their infrequent visits to Lasan. It was a relief to know he'd been wrong, to know the child had survived to become a man.

"You're alive!"

"Yes." Cal tipped his head in acknowledgement and then swept his gaze over the others before settling on Kanan briefly, hesitating, before returning his attention to Zeb. "And I'm here to help free Sasha —"

"Sasha…?"

"Sorry," Cal said with a faint grimace. He scratched his temple. "Sasha and Agent Kallus are the same person. It was a nickname when we were kids. Before I was brought to the temple. I forget that most people don't know that."

"You knew Kallus?!"

"We're cousins," Cal answered easily, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as a ripple of shock ran through the group of rebels gathered around the command table. "But that isn't important right now. The important thing is that the Force led me here. How can I help?" 

"We need to get passed the blockade over Lothal." Hera stepped forward as she spoke and Zeb stepped backwards immediately, submitting to her authority, though he kept his attention fixed on the holotransmission all the while. "Preferably, a plan with the least probable chance of getting shot down."

"I... think I can help with that. Meet me at these coordinates," Cal said quickly, his forehead furrowing and his gaze igniting with determination. His arm shifted enough to show he was using his console and one of the consoles at central command beeped a moment or so later to indicate that the suggested coordinates had been transmitted and received. And then Cal flashed a smile, soft and warm and gone in an instant. "A zeta-class Imperial shuttle will be waiting. Don't shoot. I'll be in it." 

The resemblance between Cal and Kallus struck Zeb once again. It was strange to know that Kallus was related to a Jedi — someone who'd fought in the Clone Wars and who'd almost perished at the hands of the emergent Empire — considering Kallus' own role in the Imperial machine. He'd never once spoken of his family, his connection to the Jedi Order, on Bahryn.

Zeb supposed his silence on the matter was understandable.

The Jedi Order — as trumped up as the charge was — were accused of and executed for treason against the Old Republic. And it was no secret that vocal families of the Jedi from within the Republic were rounded up, interrogated, and imprisoned for obstruction of justice or outright executed as accomplices. 

Undoubtedly, Kallus would have had to prove himself a devoted citizen and officer to his superiors. He'd have had to face his own kin under their watchful gaze. Possibly, Kallus might have had to watch them die or might have even pulled the trigger himself. 

_We all have things we won't forget_.

That was what Kallus said to him on that moon.

Zeb bowed his head and couldn't help wondering if the murder of his own kin was one of those things that haunted Kallus even now. He swallowed the surge of nausea that rose from his gut and forced himself to breathe evenly, knowing he couldn't let his thoughts and speculations get the better of him.

One day, Kallus would trust him enough to open up about his past. He'd trust him enough to speak about his family, his nightmares, the things that made his heart jump into his throat and choke him. But until then...Zeb had to focus on freeing him.

Zeb and the others didn't hesitate to head to the given coordinates once the _Ghost_ was loaded with the essential supplies, a palpable aura of anticipation settling over the entire crew — as it often did whenever a dangerous mission came along. An Imperial shuttle was waiting, just as Cal had said. Zeb caught a brief glimpse of red hair through the distant viewport before the shuttle docked with the _Ghost_ a few minutes later.

When the hatch for the airlock slid open, Zeb almost did a double-take when Cal stepped through. The man was now dressed like an Inquisitor, the visor of his helmet raised to show his face. The black of his clothes seemed to drain his skin of colour, and Cal was in the middle of slipping a pair of contact lenses over his irises, turning them that cold and murderous hue associated with agents of the Bogan.

"Not a bad disguise," Hera said with some surprise, marvelling at the difference the contacts and clothes made to his appearance.

Zeb couldn't blame her. Certainly, seeing Cal like this was a shock to the system. It would fool both stormtroopers and officers, if the man could maintain an aura of danger when dealing with them through transmissions and down on the surface. It might even fool Thrawn himself for a short while.

After seven months, no one would be expecting a rescue mission.

But Zeb hoped dealing with the Grand Admiral wouldn't be necessary; he wasn't sure he could handle seeing him wielding Kallus' bo-rifle again. He'd almost lost himself to his rage the last time. It was the most feral he'd felt since Lasan. He'd known that Thrawn had taken the weapon forcefully, had known that Kallus would never offer it to him willingly, not after Zeb had explained what the _Boosahn Keeraw_ meant and what it meant to have a warrior surrender their weapon to a superior opponent. He'd known that Kallus would have fought — tooth and nail — to keep the bo-rifle out of those murderous hands.

That was the moment he'd thought Kallus had died at the hands of Thrawn.

Zeb hadn't been thinking clearly; he'd been overwhelmed with the urge to hurl himself at that blue bastard and he'd almost done so. Kanan had to hold him back with his connection to the Ashla. And he'd had to do it discreetly, knowing that one wrong move and Thrawn's forces would open fire, killing them all in a single sweep.

Fortunately, the arrival of the Bendu had provided ample distraction — for himself and for Thrawn.

"Okay," Cal said firmly, sliding his visor into place at last and completing the effect of his appropriated uniform. He beckoned them towards his stolen shuttle. "Let's go over the details so that we'll all be on the same page when we reach the blockade. It'll be nightfall on Lothal in a few short hours. We don't have a lot of time." 

Zeb was the first to step forward and Hera followed hot on his heels. His heart thumped in his chest despite the confident rise of his chin. It wouldn't be long now until Kallus was safe and sound aboard their ship, where he could recover from his ordeal in peace. It wouldn’t be long until Zeb could bring him home to the rebel base, the current home of all the brave rebels in their fleet.

Once Cal and the crew smoothed out the details, Hera and Chopper took their positions on the _Ghost_. Getting down to the surface was one thing, and escaping the Imperial blockade after freeing Kallus was quite another; a second ship would be needed to provide covering fire as the shuttle fled the surface. Hera was the best pilot in the rebellion — never mind the rescue team.

Kanan, Ezra, and Rex changed into their usual stormtrooper gear. Rex settled into the cockpit of the shuttle without hesitation and began the calculations required to jump to a safe distance from Lothal. Zeb knew Hera would be doing the same on the _Ghost_.

Zeb settled himself on one of the vacant seats and tried not to fidget as anticipation intensified inside him. He tapped the rhythm of an old tune against the meat of his thigh as his ears flicked and twitched. It wasn't long until he noticed Cal staring, or that the man seemed to be at least. It was difficult to tell with the visor down. Zeb couldn't help growling, "Yes?"

"I'm sorry," Cal said gently, sadly, "about Lasan."

"Yeah." Zeb released a breath. "Me too, kid."

Zeb almost smiled as the word slipped out. He hadn't called Cal that since Cal _was_ a kid — when Jaro would ask to speak with Surat alone and Cal would be entrusted to Zeb, who hadn't hesitated to show the kid all the best spots in the capital. The best places to eat. The best places to just sit and take in the view, beautiful and breath-taking, a sea of flowers, vibrant leaves, and white stone smoothed through the ages. The best places to throw down a gauntlet and work up a good sweat through a sparring session. Zeb almost chuckled as he remembered the kid taking advantage of his diminutive size and agility, dancing out of reach easily, laughing and wriggling free from their grasp with the slipperiness of an eel while the training guardsmen grew more and more frustrated with his antics.

"I think...I think Master Jaro knew something bad would happen on Lasan." Cal bowed his head and seemed to stare at the black gloves encasing his hands. His words caught Zeb's attention in an instant. "Whenever we were leaving, it felt like he thought it might be the last time he'd see his planet. His people. He tried not to let it show, but I could see it affecting his ears. Master Jaro and Captain Surat spent half their time arguing whenever we visited. I didn't hear the arguments personally, but I felt them through the Force." 

Almost immediately, Zeb was transported back to the capital city, to one of the long-ago evenings he and Captain Surat had accompanied Jaro and his padawan back to their shuttle waiting at the port. He'd been all too aware of the tension between the twins as he'd tried to distract Cal with an intricate puzzle he'd picked up from one of the market stalls as a gift for the kid. He'd felt the unspoken words hanging in the air even as he'd watched Cal's face light up with surprised delight. He'd slid his gaze carefully, almost casually, over to his elders and saw Jaro gripping Surat tightly, claws digging into his arm as he whispered something too quick and too low for Zeb to catch.

But he'd seen Surat recoil sharply, offended. He'd seen him rip his arm free, heedless of the claws tearing through his sleeve and tearing straight into his skin. He'd seen his captain storm away, his hackles raised and his ears flat against his head. And he'd seen Jaro watching him go, his weight shifting as though he'd sprint after his twin brother, before the Jedi had dragged in a breath and let his urges dissipate. 

Jaro had looked at Zeb then — long and hard — as though weighing something in his mind before turning away, disappearing into the shuttle and beckoning his distracted padawan with a sharp command. 

Zeb had watched them go and he'd wondered. He'd wondered what could cause such a rift between Surat and his brother, to whom he'd been close even across the vast emptiness of space. The Ashla had maintained their connection throughout their respective training, and had maintained it right up until Surat felt his brother die at the hands of the emergent Empire, the hands of the sabotaged clones. Zeb had wondered what could leave a Jedi so wound up, so emotional. 

He bowed his head and supposed he didn't have to wonder now.

It made sense. What Cal said about Jaro, about his suspected knowledge. The two of them would never know for sure, but it made sense. So much sense that Zeb wanted to hide his face in his hands and scream at his memories, at the knowledge that Surat hadn't listened to whatever Jaro was telling him. 

Perhaps the massacre could have been avoided.

If Surat had listened to his brother, to whatever warnings the Jedi tried to impart.

Zeb had to wonder, if the warnings had come from Chava the Wise instead of someone involved with the Jedi Order, would Surat have listened to them? Would Surat have made preparations or taken precautions to prevent or mitigate the impending assault on their homeworld? Would the Honour Guard and the civilians under their protection have been more prepared for the siege?

Would their people have been evacuated in time?

It horrified him to think Surat could have done something, could have given their people a fighting chance to survive, and hadn't. It horrified him to think of all the lives lost. Zeb and his peers in the Honour Guard had almost idolised Surat. The thought that such idolisation might not have been warranted made him sick to his stomach.

"Whatever his failings, Captain Surat loved his people. I'm certain he did his duty, right up until the end." Cal leaned forward and rested a gloved hand on his knee, the touch soft and unexpected. But not unwelcome. A lifetime ago, it might have been Zeb comforting Cal through a difficult conversation. It was almost strange to have their roles reversed now. "Don't lose faith in his memory, Zeb. He'd never have hurt his people on purpose. I have no idea what warnings he was given. Master Jaro might have seen disjointed fragments only; interpreting visions of the future isn't an exact science. You know that." 

"You're right." Zeb scrubbed a quick hand over his face. His claws dragged across his cheek lightly, just enough to sting, but not cut. "I wasn't thinkin'. S'hard to, when Lasan comes up in conversation. Things just become a mess of feelings and shit."

"I understand."

"I know, kid. I know."

Cal squeezed his knee before withdrawing, settling back in his seat and turning his head. He seemed to stare out through the nearest viewport — to stare out at the churning miasma of blue hyperspace. Several moments of silence passed before Cal said softly, a small smile in his voice, "Sasha helped me survive, you know. I didn't know where to go after Master Jaro was killed. I acted on instinct and went straight to Sasha on Coruscant because I knew he'd been training at the academy; I knew he'd know what to do. Knew he wouldn't turn me in. I trusted him as much as I trusted Master Jaro. Sasha was so scared and so angry, and wouldn't listen to me when I tried to tell him we were innocent. That we hadn't done what we’d been accused of. That our friends and allies just turned on us without warning. But he helped me all the same. I don't think I'd still be here without him."

"Too bad he didn't think to extend that kindness to the rest of us," Kanan said mildly, his words catching their attention at once. "You know, all the other innocent children that were slaughtered or hunted like animals. Or dragged back to Coruscant to be tortured for information."

Ezra coughed awkwardly, bowing his helmeted head and keeping out of a discussion for what must have been the first time in his life.

Zeb shifted uncomfortably, the scent of grief and anger assailing his senses. He watched Kanan fold his arms across his chest and was glad that he couldn't see his face. Inhaling the scent of his emotions was bad enough without seeing them written all over his face as well.

"Caleb —"

"Kanan."

"Right. Kanan." Cal tipped his head in acknowledgement. But there was a tightness to his voice that wasn't there before. Not to mention a tension in his frame — almost as though he expected a fight to break out between them. "You don't understand. Sasha is —"

"A former Imperial Agent that helped hunt and torture people like us. Not to mention countless others," Kanan finished quietly, a sharp edge to his voice. "I understand and appreciate that Kallus is a rebel now, and that he is _trying_ , but that doesn't erase his past. It doesn't erase his crimes." 

"No, of course not. But —" 

"But nothing." Kanan raised a quelling hand and then his voice softened. "Someday, we _will_ defeat the Empire and restore the Republic, and Kallus _will_ have to face consequences for his past. You'll have to accept that at some point."

Cal said nothing, but Zeb could almost hear his teeth grinding with anger. He could almost hear his joints protesting as those gloved hands curled into fists against his thighs. Eventually, Cal turned away, releasing a slow breath to relieve the tension in his frame.

"Is this goin' to be a problem when we make landfall?" Zeb gestured between the two of them as he spoke carefully, flicking his attention between one Jedi and the other. His ears flicked in irritation. "'Cause I have to say, I'm not feelin' too confident in this group right now."

"We'll be fine," Cal and Kanan said simultaneously, turning their attention to Zeb in the same instant. Both of them waved a dismissive hand. "We're Jedi. We're used to setting aside differences for the sake of a mission."

"Well. That was weird as fuck." Ezra pulled his helmet off without warning and turned a scowl in each of their directions before adding, "Don't do that again. You're freaking me out."

"Sorry," Cal and Kanan said together, a noticeable smile in both of their voices. It almost sounded impish. Zeb almost rolled his eyes at their antics. Fucking mischievous bogans, the pair of them. "We'll do better next time."

Ezra almost hurled his helmet at Kanan before Zeb stepped in calmly, catching his wrist with a quick hand and forcing him to drop the helmet. It bounced off his lap and skittered across the floor, bumping into one of the vacant seats at the far end of the shuttle. Ezra scowled at him then.

"What?" Zeb scowled at Ezra in return. "Throwin' the helmet could have damaged it. It isn't as though we have a load of spares to go around right now. Besides, a soldier should take care of the armour he's dependin' on!"

Ezra huffed and fetched it immediately, shoving it back down on his head with a grunt of frustration. He slammed the visor down without another word and almost threw himself back into his seat.

Zeb watched him and almost chuckled at his antics, wondering how such a lithe slip of a thing could hold so much frustration within. He couldn't stop himself from reaching out and patting the top of his helmet in lieu of ruffling his hair. Zeb did chuckle when Ezra batted at his hand before sinking down further in his seat to get away, folding his arms across his chest and bracing both feet against the floor to keep himself balanced.

The rest of the jump to Lothal passed in relative silence, for which Zeb was grateful. He wasn't sure he could handle more difficult conversations or tense arguments between his team members. Not when he was so high strung already, anticipating their arrival at the blockade and the subsequent landfall. He was even more determined to rescue Kallus now. Even though he knew Kanan made valid points, Zeb couldn't help feeling relieved to know there'd been a spark of rebellion in Kallus all along, just waiting to be ignited. 

Zeb leaned back in his seat and rested his head against the bulkhead. His ears flicked once or twice before stilling, focusing on the shuttle. He listened to the song of the engine, the strong humming, as it propelled them through hyperspace. Its song was smooth and strong, robust. It spoke of regular maintenance and the best parts credits could purchase or manufacture. It spoke of reliability, and that thought comforted Zeb as their team hurtled toward Imperial space.

Kallus would need its reliability, Zeb knew, if he was going to escape from the Imperial complex and from the Empire. He would need its speed and smooth jumps. Just like he'd need their team to be at their best on the surface.

Zeb fingered his weapons belt absently, touching the ancient words embroidered down its length and opening his connection to the Ashla without hesitation. He felt the current within him sharpen and strengthen in preparation. The Ashla would help him retrieve Kallus, Zeb knew.

It was all part of the greater plan.

It had to be.

_The Child must save The Warrior_ , Chava had told him so often on Lasan. She'd told him so again on the _Ghost_. He'd thought it referred to his actions on Bahryn. And then he'd thought it referred to his push to send Ezra to extract Kallus when General Draven expressed concern about possible monitoring.

But now Zeb knew otherwise. 

It wasn't referring to just one pivotal moment in time. It was referring to a series of moments, all of them connected to each other, leading him to the future the Ashla had in store for them — for him and Kallus, and for the Lasat people. One day, the Empire would be no more. One day, his people could come out of hiding, could reclaim and repopulate Lasan if desired. One day, it would be possible to memorialise all those who'd perished while protecting their home. The Ashla knew their names — it knew all names throughout time and space, and held the whisper of their memories, their smiles and laughter, their tears.

Zeb released a sigh through his connection with the Ashla. He could almost see the memorial stone now, rising from the grass, its shining surface stretching on and on beneath the sun. He could almost see the names of the fallen. He could almost see the wreaths, the candles, the bottles of alcohol shared among the survivors, the mourners, in remembrance.

The images in his mind sharpened.

And then he saw Kallus, older and weary, leaning on a handsome cane as he brushed shaking fingers across shining stone, across the names inscribed there. Saw him sigh and bow his head before turning, a familiar stretch of white fabric drawn across the bridge of his nose and shielding that stardust gaze from view, twin tails fluttering around him in the wind. Saw his mouth twist with such heartbreak and so much regret. His breath caught in his chest when Kallus reached out with those same fingers and tried to touch his face.

Zeb jerked away, breathing hard and slamming his connection to the Ashla shut. A multitude of conflicting emotions coursed through him when the images vanished in an instant.

"Zeb?"

Kanan.

That was Kanan.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Still breathing heavy, Zeb snapped his attention over to Kanan. Sweat broke out beneath his fur as he realised all three Jedi were staring at him through their helmets now, as though aware that something just happened. As though suspecting that he might have seen something. Zeb swallowed hard and shifted in his seat in an attempt to ease the sudden tension in his frame. "Yeah. I'm fine. Just worried."

"About Kallus?"

_About myself_.

Zeb almost said the words, almost confessed to what he'd seen. What the Ashla had shown him. Himself and Kallus, intimate enough that the Fulcrum Agent didn't hesitate to reach for him at all. But he couldn't give voice to what he'd seen. Doing so would make it real and he couldn't handle that. Zeb knew he wasn't strong enough. 

He wasn't sure he'd ever be strong enough.

How could he reconcile such an intimate future with such fraught history, after all?

Zeb wasn't sure he had the strength to just be Kallus' friend — let alone the strength to be something deeper, something more intimate than that. It had been difficult enough to accept that he no longer wanted to crush Kallus' skull between his bare hands, that the thought made him uncomfortable and almost sick to his stomach now. It was difficult enough to accept that his vision of a bruised and battered Kallus felt so _wrong_ that it terrified him.

He shook his head.

Zeb dragged in a breath and held it for a moment before controlling its release, forcing himself to calm down. Gradually, his breaths slowed and his heartbeat steadied. He couldn't afford to get so worked up before a mission. He couldn't afford to get wrapped up in thoughts of the future. It would do nothing but distract him and Zeb had to be at his best.

He had to focus on the present.

That was what mattered now.

Whatever the Ashla had in store for him and Kallus, the mission just ahead of him was the most important.

_One moment at a time_ , Zeb told himself calmly, bowing his head. He scrubbed his face with a hand and ignored the slight tremble of his fingers. _Just focus on one moment at a time. You can do that much._

Almost as soon as those words passed through his thoughts, the shuttle dropped out of hyperspace. 

Zeb released a breath.

_Showtime_.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another chapter!
> 
> Looking forward to the reunion?? I know I am.

Zeb watched as Cal rose from his seat with an aura of cold confidence as soon as the shuttle dropped out of hyperspace. It was identical to the confidence he'd seen genuine Inquisitors employ, their movements alone capable of putting the fear of the Bogan into all who encountered them. The sight was so unnerving, he couldn't help staring, his lips parting in surprise. Zeb hadn't expected the transformation to be so...perfect.

Cal headed into the cockpit as Rex guided the shuttle towards the blockade at a comfortable speed. Eventually, the shuttle started slowing. It wasn't long until a nameless officer aboard one of the numerous Imperial cruisers asked for an authorisation code — standard procedure for all Imperial vessels arriving at and departing from Lothal.

Zeb, Ezra, and Kanan shared a nervous glance.

Cal said crisply, "Kappa - Sigma - Four - Eight - Zero - Theta - Nine."

Silence fell for a heartbeat and then another.

The wait was painful.

Zeb swallowed thickly, his fear that it wouldn't work rising. That the Empire would know something was up. That it would all be over before it could even begin.

"Authorisation verified. You're cleared to continue," announced the officer, sending a ripple of relief through Zeb and the others. "Welcome to Lothal. We weren't expecting a visit from an Inquisitor, Sir. Shall I inform the Grand Admiral of your arrival?"

"No," Cal answered coldly, a threat of murder in his voice. "I have orders from the Emperor himself. It wouldn't do to have his random inspection spoiled now, would it?"

"N-no, Sir."

"Very good." A dangerous smirk seemed to underscore his words. "As you were." 

The connection died and Rex continued on his way, guiding the shuttle past the blockade at a controlled pace. Too fast or too slow, and it might earn suspicion — even after using a valid authorisation code.

"I can't believe that worked." Cal emerged from the cockpit and raised his visor, a wide grin blooming on his face. Briefly, he looked like a boy, lighting up with surprise and delight. A soft huff of laughter escaped him. "Must be a better actor than I thought."

"You also had valid codes," Kanan pointed out as he raised his own visor, fixing that unseeing gaze on Cal. "I assume the codes came from the same person as that uniform." 

"And the lightsaber," Cal added mildly, his grin vanishing as he pulled a familiar sabre from his belt. He activated it easily, its double-ended red glow filling the shuttle for a moment before he deactivated the weapon and returned it to his belt. "Haven't had a chance to start the purification process. Which I suppose is a good thing, given our current circumstances."

"The Empire hasn't noticed their absence?"

"No. I've been impersonating this Inquisitor for a little over a week or so," Cal explained as he settled back in his seat for the remainder of the flight. He laced his gloved fingers together. "The real one is...incapacitated. Permanently, I'm afraid. He won't be a problem."

Kanan narrowed his gaze.

Zeb watched them both carefully, wondering if another...disagreement...would break out between the two of them.

"You shattered his mind."

"Not deliberately," Cal answered with a grimace of regret. "But he had information I needed and he was stubborn. The codes slipped out while I was searching for something else. I did get the information I needed in the end. I just wish it hadn't come with such a cost."

Kanan shook his head and turned his face away, sliding his visor back into place without a word.

Zeb wasn't sure he'd ever seen Kanan look so furious before. Honestly, he couldn't blame the Jedi for the sentiment. The mere idea of rifling through the mind of someone else — even the mind of someone as awful and dangerous as an Inquisitor — for the sake of retrieving information made his stomach turn.

It sounded too much like torture.

It sounded like something a Jedi shouldn't be doing, even if the information was important.

Zeb was tempted to open his connection with the Ashla again and focus his attention on Cal once more. Just to ensure whatever hardships he'd endured hadn't allowed the Bogan to sink its claws into him. But he reminded himself that Kanan was connected to the Ashla almost continuously, and if he'd noticed an infection growing, Kanan would have put a stop to the mission as soon as he'd encountered Cal on the shuttle. Zeb reminded himself that the Jedi weren't immaculate and never had been. 

It was almost impossible to be so.

Most certainly, the chances had slimmed even further since the Clone Wars.

Zeb shook his head as the shuttle began its descent. He didn't have time for musings on morality, ambiguity, or other such topics. He rose from his chair as the others clipped their harnesses into place and slunk towards the back of the shuttle, setting himself down on the floor. He stretched out and used his hands and feet to brace himself against the sides, keeping himself rooted in place. Zeb couldn't afford to be seen in one of the seats as the shuttle approached the landing pad within the Imperial grounds.

He held his breath as the shuttle settled on the landing pad and the glow of floodlights spilled in through the viewports to illuminate the interior. The cast of their light just missed highlighting his presence on the shuttle. The engines released a sigh. The familiar tread of stormtroopers approached at an unhurried pace.

"You won't have to lie low for long," Ezra whispered as he and Cal slid their visors into place. He raised a thumb in a show of confidence and a grin slid into his voice. "I'll get that power grid overheated as soon as possible. Keep an ear out for that low whine. You'll be able to move then."

Nodding, Zeb said nothing and allowed himself to exhale as Kanan opened the shuttle door with the push of a button and lowered the ramp. He watched as Kanan and Ezra flanked Cal immediately, operating as his personal guards. The three of them disembarked and Zeb heard Cal exchange a few cold words with the two stormtroopers that greeted them.

"Yes, Sir," the two stormtroopers replied sharply, taking up position on either side of the ramp at once. Doing so was a standard operating procedure. Zeb had seen it done more times than he could count.

A smirk curled his lips.

Zeb couldn't wait to bash their helmets in. It was his favourite part of all the missions he'd been on since joining the _Ghost_ crew. That enthusiasm — combined with his obvious strength — was the reason people assumed he was just the muscle. But he _wasn't_ just muscle. He'd never been just muscle. Hera and Kanan had valued his input even before learning about his history, about his career in the Honour Guard.

Sabine had realised he wasn't just muscle a few weeks after joining the crew, having caught him surfing the holonet and researching the latest models in weaponry, even going so far as to dig into the dark net. He'd been making note of their benefits and their weaknesses, knowing it would be vital for future skirmishes. Sabine had been delighted to find another weapons enthusiast on board and their friendship had sparked from there.

It was Ezra and Chopper — and AP-Five — that thought he was stupid.

Eventually, Ezra had realised otherwise, but there were still moments that he doubted Zeb and his abilities. Chopper, however, thought most organic beings were stupid and incompetent and there were few exceptions to his views.

Zeb had learned to let it slide.

But AP-Five was an almost relentless thorn in his side. That bucket of snark never hesitated to have a go at Zeb, never hesitated to insult him. He never hesitated to disparage him in front of their superiors. It was a wonder that he'd been allowed to take the position of head of base security, if Zeb was honest with himself.

Presumably, Hera had sung his praises to counteract whatever AP-Five had said. The High Command respected Hera and her abilities, her mind. She'd even been promoted a few weeks after Commander Sato had given his life over Atollon. Apparently, Sato had suggested the promotion not long before he'd died and all those who'd been at the Battle of Atollon knew Hera was a competent leader, soldier, and an impressive pilot. Not to mention brave enough to tell Thrawn to, diplomatically, go fuck himself.

One day, once he'd freed Kallus and taken him back to safety, Zeb wanted to snarl the words himself — right into one of those pretty, blue ears — before snapping his fucking neck and ripping his head clean off in the same violent motion. Normally, Zeb would never be so brutal or so aggressive, but he'd make an exception for Thrawn.

Right now, he'd settle for ploughing through the stormtroopers and officers standing between him and Kallus. Zeb moistened his lip with a quick sweep of his tongue. It wouldn't be long now until he could make his move, until he could knock the nearest stormtroopers out and head across the grounds.

Just under half an hour passed before the power went out across the city, earning an irritated huff from one of the stormtroopers guarding the ramp.

Slowly, Zeb rose to his feet and slunk across the shuttle. He wasn't just a warrior; he was an apex predator and it showed in his movements, his silent footsteps. Not even his claws clicked against the floor. Zeb was almost at the door when he heard one of the oblivious stormtroopers say, "Useless fucking dustbowl. This would never happen on Coruscant."

"Damn right."

Zeb couldn't stop a small chuckle from escaping in the seconds before he grabbed the two stormtroopers, slamming their bucketheads together hard. The two of them crumpled in an instant. Zeb caught them and hauled them into the shuttle, where he shattered their comm links and restrained them with zip-ties from the belt around his waist.

It never hurt to have someone for the alliance to interrogate. Who knew what kind of information the stormtroopers carried!

Zeb wasn't too concerned about securing their mouths. Kallus would be free and their team would be in the air long before either of them emerged from unconsciousness. His heart thumping, and his ears flicking and rotating, Zeb left the shuttle and darted through the shadows spread across the landing pad.

Crates and other spacecraft provided ample cover.

Even with knocking out the odd trooper or an officer along the way, it took Zeb just a few minutes to reach the door of the complex. His strides were long, and he was faster than most people. He'd spent his life training to be quicker on his feet than his peers, and that gave him a distinct advantage in a world dominated with Humans, whose fastest runners couldn't quite compare to a Lasat on a mission. 

Usually, Zeb hung back to provide protection for friends and allies, but he was alone for now. He didn't have to hold himself back until he re-joined the others and he wasn't certain he'd hold back even then. Not when Kallus' life and freedom was at stake. Zeb drew in a steady, but deep breath — he couldn't get ahead of himself. 

Zeb extended his claws and slipped them through the groove in the middle of the automated doors, finding purchase with equal care and swiftness. He took a breath to brace himself and then pulled with a low growl of effort. His muscles bunched and strained. Slowly, the doors slid open enough to let him squeeze through. Zeb moved forward quickly, knowing the others had moved ahead to clear a path for him.

Opening his connection to the Ashla was easy, easier than ever before. His senses sharpened as he moved through the corridors on silent feet. It wasn't long until he felt them — Kallus, his aura tired and despairing, and almost devoid of all hope; and the others, fierce and determined to reach their target.

His blood thundering, and his stomach knotting, Zeb followed their connection — the threads that bound him and Kallus together, twisting and sparking with energy, alive. He'd seen those threads before, but he'd never seen them look so strong, so robust. It had been the barest hint of a connection that Zeb, having survived the night with Kallus, had seen on that frozen moon so long ago.

He'd thought distance would sever those faint threads.

He was wrong.

As the distance closed between him and Kallus, the threads connecting them continued to strengthen. He watched them twist around each other, binding together, becoming cords. And soon those cords began twisting, turning into a rope that seemed so solid that Zeb felt he could reach out and grab it. That he could _pull_ and close the distance in an instant. 

But he didn't.

It wasn't as though he could pull Kallus straight through a solid wall.

It wasn't long until Zeb caught up with Cal and Kanan — Ezra was elsewhere, no doubt returning to them even as the three of them moved through the complex. It comforted him to see his connection with Kanan materialising, seeming almost as strong as the rope binding him and Kallus together. His connection with Cal was much weaker; it was a thin cord that had unravelled with time, sparking threads poking out here and there.

There was no connection between Cal and Kanan. The weak threads that stretched out and tried to meet sparked angrily, recoiling sharply, repelled in an instant.

But that didn't matter. 

Nothing mattered except the closing distance between him and Kallus, the Child and the Warrior. Nothing mattered except the group of stormtroopers standing between them — milling about and chatting calmly, amiably, as though it didn't even matter that one of their own kind was being held without trial in the complex and tortured.

Imperials disgusted him.

His lips curled back in a silent snarl as he loped past Cal and Kanan.

His fangs gleamed in the darkness.

Zeb didn't think. It was pure instinct that drove him forward on silent feet. He was almost upon the nearest set of stormtroopers when the lights flared back to life without warning, flooding the corridor and announcing his presence in the same sweep. Zeb threw himself forward as one of them cursed loudly, raising a blaster in self-defence.

The stormtrooper didn't have a chance to fire.

Zeb ploughed into him like a tonne of bricks and toppled him and three others to the floor in the same violent sweep. The first cracked his head against the floor so hard that his helmet crumpled instantly, knocking him out cold. The grip on his blaster went slack and Zeb wrenched it away, using it to bash in the visor of the next downed stormtrooper before she could scramble to her feet.

Bone crunched.

It was a sickening sound that made the other two flinch with fear, hands scrambling for their own blasters, for their thermal detonators, for anything that might give them a fighting chance against him — against his superior strength and speed. Zeb didn't give them a chance to find them as blood spurted in a thick gush and the second trooper went limp, leaving him free to go after the others.

Distantly, Zeb was aware of the whirlwind of motion around him as Cal and Kanan used each other as props, dancing around their group of stormtroopers easily, whipping blasters out of their hands before a single shot could be fired and using the Ashla to crush comm links before an alarm could be sounded. 

Zeb disabled his own opponents just as the others knocked their last one out.

"Ezra is coming. We'll clear this up," Kanan said quickly, gesturing to the pile of unconscious stormtroopers. "You go on ahead. We won't have a lot of time before someone thinks to check the live feed. You need to get to Kallus first or it'll all be over."

Zeb nodded and didn't hesitate to sprint away, the ancient song of his people thrumming deep in his veins. Cal was hot on his heels, his stolen lightsaber still tucked away, safe and unused. The pair of them dealt with all the stormtroopers and officers that found themselves in their way, their fists quick and their connection to the Ashla quicker.

Zeb hadn't used his connection to the Ashla in battle in so long that using it now was like punching through the upper atmosphere in a shuttle for the first time. It was like looking down and seeing his homeworld from space for the first time, so beautiful and so immense, bigger than he'd ever imagined. The feeling was full of pure wonder — and pure freedom — and Zeb could almost feel a bubble of childish laughter rising from the depths of his chest. 

Cal clapped him on the shoulder, grinning brightly, sensing the warmth and brightness of his feelings through their old connection. 

A few moments later, Zeb seized him with a wink as he sensed stormtroopers approaching from around the corner up ahead. Cal didn't even blink. He just nodded and braced himself for the inevitable. Zeb hurled him seconds before the stormtroopers reached the corner and Cal used the momentum to his advantage, his frame a blur of black, white, and red as he collided with the unwitting group aggressively, knocking them down like pins with a grunt.

Zeb joined the Jedi in moments and the two of them worked together, combining muscle and the Ashla to disable the stormtroopers. Their movements were swift and controlled, but fluid. Each movement flowed into the next until Zeb and Cal were left standing over another pile of unconscious soldiers.

Kallus was so close now.

Zeb could almost taste his scent in the air, that soft combination of earth and iron that was often hidden beneath the sharp heat of his anger on the battlefield. His heart clenched at the thought of inhaling that scent again and knowing Kallus was _safe_ , far from those who'd hurt him.

Zeb didn’t hesitate to continue down the next corridor. He couldn’t have stopped himself even if he’d wanted to. Two more levels and he’d be outside the cell door. Two more levels and he’d be able to rip the door away; he’d be able to storm inside and reassure Kallus that it wouldn’t be long now. That he’d make sure he made out of the complex. No matter what. Two more levels and he’d be able to pull the man up on his back. With Kallus so weary, and so skinny, Zeb doubted Kallus would make it that far on his own two feet. 

He’d carried Kallus before. 

He’d do it again.

Zeb reached the lift at the far end of the corridor with a few loping strides. The most frustrating thing about the complex was that it was a maze and the lifts didn’t extend from top to bottom on all levels. The lifts were divided into various sections, requiring traversing through several corridors along the way; it was convoluted and devious. If it wasn’t for his connection to the Ashla and the fact that he could sense Kallus, Zeb wasn’t sure he’d have made it through the complex at all. Not with all the twists and turns, all the corridors and lifts.

But Zeb didn’t think too long about that.

He wasn’t alone. He never would be. Never again. 

Zeb held the door of the lift as Cal darted forward and slipped through easily, settling in beside him without a word and hitting the required button. The sense of anticipation ramped up as the door slid closed at last and began moving, bringing them closer to Kallus. The Ashla sparked with agitation around Zeb moments before he sensed the officers and stormtroopers on the detention level — no doubt guarding various prisoners; thieves and cutthroats; smugglers without proper permits; farmers that hadn’t paid their taxes; and who knew what else.

Unfortunately, Zeb knew he couldn’t help all of the prisoners being held in the complex. He didn’t have the resources or the manpower. He and his team would be _lucky_ , if their attempt to rescue Kallus proved successful without losing a life in the process. It made his stomach twist to know he couldn’t help them. 

Zeb pulled four thermal detonators from his weapons belt and primed them with care, using timed intervals. The lift drew closer to the detention level all the while. He knew he’d have just a few seconds in which to throw each one at their chosen target. Zeb also knew the Ashla would help him aim true.

Zeb trusted the Ashla with his life.

More importantly, he trusted the Ashla with _Kallus’_ life.

Beside him, Cal drew his stolen lightsaber, extending a single end and moving just in front of Zeb, aware that he’d soon need protective cover.

Zeb exhaled slowly, his world narrowing to the detonators in his hands and the four groups of enemies ahead as the door to the lift slid open between one heartbeat and the next. His muscles bunching and contracting rapidly, Zeb hurled one detonator after another in rapid succession as a vicious snarl curled his lip.

Each detonator hit true, exploding on impact one after another. The concussive blast was almost deafening, flames and smoke filling the corridor immediately, as the detonators ripped through doors and walls, ceilings and floors. Not to mention flesh and armour. Momentarily, the scent of fire threatened to throw him back to an earlier time, a different battle, but Zeb grit his teeth hard and held on to the present with all his might. 

Zeb came under fire in an instant as those further down the corridor scrambled to action with muffled curses and shouts of fear and rage. The klaxon began sounding within seconds, an officer slamming his hand against a control panel at the far end of the corridor. Zeb pulled his bo-rifle from his back between one heartbeat and the next and shot him in the chest immediately, watching him crumple with an agonised scream even as Cal whirled around Zeb like a dancer, his stolen lightsaber a blur in his hands as he deflected blaster bolts from their enemies.

Together, Zeb and Cal moved forward into the corridor, operating in tandem as Zeb often had with Kanan in the past. Zeb took out one officer after another, moving down the ranks, inciting increasing panic in those with the least combat experience. He knew the signs. He knew them well. Those who turned and ran away, those who were _deserting_ , Zeb allowed to escape — he’d never been one for shooting his enemies in the back.

Zeb also knew none of them would make it to tomorrow.

The Empire didn’t forgive desertion.

Most armies didn’t.

But Zeb couldn’t help them. He wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to, not with the vision of Kallus’ bruised and battered frame still in his mind. 

Zeb continued onward as Cal defended against the frenzied shooting from the stormtroopers, a grim smile on his face. The smoke and the sweltering heat of the fire flooding the corridor aided them easily; it distorted their enemies’ vision even as the Ashla guided Cal and Zeb, highlighting the required path through the flames, smoke, and debris. Zeb moved quickly, but with extra care, his bare feet far more vulnerable than Cal with his boots. 

Zeb continued firing all the while, leaping over scorched bodies and burning debris easily, his aim quick and sure. His bo-rifle almost sang in his grasp, the crystal buried inside vibrating with the heat of the battle through his connection to the Ashla.

Slowly, so slowly, the distance between himself and Kallus closed.

Each leap, each focused shot from his bo-rifle, brought him closer to the Warrior, to that infuriating man who’d almost given his life for the rebellion when he’d tried to warn the Rebel Alliance almost seven months ago, and who _had_ sacrificed his freedom.

Finally, Zeb reached the door to Kallus’ cell. He primed one more thermal detonator and hurled it at the remaining group of stormtroopers, taking them out with one final concussive blast. He turned to the door immediately, growling, knowing he wouldn’t have long before reinforcements arrived to prevent their escape. 

Cal lingered close, his stolen lightsaber humming, almost thirsting for battle. 

Taking a moment to stretch out his muscles, Zeb slid his gaze over the door, searching for a weakness. Unlike the doors leading into the complex, there was no central groove in which to push his claws. Tearing through the metal would take too long. He turned his attention to the control panel. He moved closer, reaching out with a hand and with his senses, feeling for that spark within himself as his lashes fluttered against his cheeks. His breath slowed. The world around him disappeared as Zeb focused his attention on that spark and _pushed_ with a quiet snarl.

The spark ignited and Zeb gasped as a powerful rush passed through him. His whole frame tensed. His eyes snapped open as a small arc of lightning passed from his fingertips to the control panel and shot straight past its defences, hitting the one command he needed. The door slid open in an instant and Zeb stumbled back a step, his breath hard and heavy, sweat beading beneath his fur from the effort of pushing his spark through the control panel.

Cal grabbed his arm and steadied him as well as he could. But he shot a nervous glance at his fingers, as though expecting that arc of lightning to return. Perhaps even hit him. His fear vibrated through their connection. 

Zeb gripped his shoulder and squeezed lightly, levelling a reassuring stare at him for just a moment. He knew he couldn’t spare more than that. But it seemed to be enough as Cal nodded at him and squeezed his arm before letting go, turning to face the corridor. Zeb stepped through the doorway, searching for that stardust gaze he’d grown so familiar with. 

When he saw Kallus, his heart twisted and his stomach plummeted through the floor.

“Karabast.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update.
> 
> This one is from Kallus' POV!
> 
> Looking forward to hearing what y'all think!

Alexsandr — crouched between his bunk and the wall and as far from the violent explosions in the corridor as possible — almost choked on his tongue when he heard that familiar curse. His heart twisted hard in his chest and nausea surged. His grip tightened around the remaining sliver of his meteorite until the sharp edges dug into his palm painfully, but he didn’t care about the pain.

The pain didn’t matter.

Because this was wrong.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

This wasn’t what he’d asked for, what he’d begged for.

Alexsandr recoiled as a familiar loping stride closed the distance between them rapidly, and shook his head hard. He tried to ignore the familiar scent that assailed his senses and reminded him of comfort and safety, of warmth and hope. He tried to wake the fuck up because this was _wrong._ His tear ducts heated as gentle hands cupped his face with a tenderness he couldn’t tolerate, those large fingers almost encircling his whole head. Gentle claws brushed against his scalp and Alexsandr choked again — on his tears.

Alexsandr lashed out at Garazeb immediately, shoving him away, snarling raggedly, “You’re not supposed to be here! You’re supposed to be _safe_!”

“Right now, I’m safer than _you_. C’mon, Kallus, we need to —”

Alexsandr flinched at the sound of his name, recoiling, his heart thundering in his chest. 

“Sasha.” The word was so sudden and so quiet that Alexsandr thought he’d imagined it. Until Garazeb found his face with one of those large hands once more and said softly, almost tenderly, “Sasha, ya asked for help and I came as soon as I could. I couldn’t not come. You’d do the same for me, right? No matter what?”

Alexsandr froze as the sudden and _intolerable_ image of Garazeb in his place rushed through his mind and then he nodded uncontrollably, those infuriating emotions rising to the surface all over again. He didn’t resist the hand that pulled him to his feet. He didn’t resist when Garazeb urged him onto his back. Alexsandr buried his face at the back of his neck as he wound his arms and legs around the Lasat and gripped tightly, dragging in desperate lungfuls of that scent he’d missed so much.

“Don’t worry, Sasha. I’m goin’ to get us both out of here,” Garazeb promised firmly, one hand now a comforting weight against his thigh as he headed toward the door. He gave a reassuring squeeze. Alexsandr ignored the pain that flared across his old bruises as Garazeb added fiercely, “We’re goin’ to go home. You’re goin’ to get looked after, good and proper.”

_Home_.

Alexsandr inhaled raggedly, almost choking again. A conflicting wave of emotions coursed through him. The fingers of one hand gripped a fistful of that familiar battlesuit. He didn’t have a home. He hadn’t had one in so long, hadn’t dared to get attached to someone enough to want to build one. Until Garazeb. And even that hadn’t been on purpose. Alexsandr pressed his face deeper into that soft fur.

It would be nice to have a home again.

With Garazeb — in whatever fashion the Lasat intended.

The corridor was stifling when the pair of them emerged from the cell.

The taste of smoke on his tongue and the feel of the flames in the air threatened to send Alexsandr to an earlier time, a much different place — and a much different Lasat. One that would sooner eviscerate him than care about him. The scars marring his chest burned with remembered pain. Alexsandr tightened his arms and legs around Garazeb, doing his best to keep his head in the present moment.

He couldn’t afford to lose himself to his memories.

Not when Garazeb was risking so much to help him.

Not when Thrawn could arrive without an ounce of warning, could take that promise of _home_ and dash it on the rocks.

Alexsandr had to keep his wits about him. He had to keep his ears ready, primed to catch whatever warning sounds he could. He had to help Garazeb in whatever fashion he could. But it was hard to remain alert when all he could hear was the crackling of flames, the rumbling breaths of a Lasat warrior, and the frantic beating of his own terrified heart. Alexsandr released a shaking breath and turned his head slightly, as though he might peek over the shoulder to his left. 

“Hold on.” The words were a soft and soothing rumble despite the situation at hand. Despite the danger that lurked around each corner, threatening their lives. Most importantly, threatening the life of one Garazeb Orrelios, who’d stolen his heart against his will so long ago. “There’s a bit of floor missin’ here. We’re goin’ to have to jump.”

_I’m never letting go_ , Alexsandr almost croaked. His grip on the battlesuit tightened until he felt his joints straining, protesting the increasing pressure, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was the Lasat wrapped up in his arms. _I couldn’t even if I wanted to._

Garazeb moved back a few steps and Alexsandr felt his muscles bunching, preparing, and a small noise caught in his throat. It reminded him so much of that moon. _Their_ moon. The moon where his entire world was turned upside down _again_. It reminded him of the frozen hours spent huddling, the tired droop of his head. It reminded him of the quiet noise of surprise he heard when he slumped against Garazeb, too weak to keep his head up. It reminded him of the almost gentle pat of a large hand against his good knee before his awareness faded with the call of sleep.

It was different now.

The risk wasn’t freezing, but burning, or being shot in their attempt to escape.

Garazeb didn’t linger in the corridor for long. A rumbling growl escaped him. His hands gripped his thighs firmly, securely, guaranteeing that Alexsandr would remain in place. The burst of speed that followed was exhilarating, and the leap was impressive. Air rushed through fur and hair. The jolt of their landing was almost unnoticeable, aside from the faint grunt that escaped Garazeb.

A moment or so later, someone else landed beside them.

Alexsandr turned his head in their direction and frowned deeply, remembering the nickname Garazeb had used in the prison cell. A lump formed in his throat. No one had used that nickname in over a decade. Not since he’d helped Cal escape Coruscant when he was in his final term at the Royal Academy, and so close to graduating.

It had to be Cal.

It would never be Mila. She’d never come for him. Not after what he’d done. And even if she’d been willing, how would she even know about him? How would she know where to look? She couldn’t connect to her spark as he and Cal could.

_It had to be Cal_.

Alexsandr couldn’t think of another person who’d give a shit about him. Not one who knew his nickname. Not one who’d trust the Captain of the Honour Guard as much as he did. Alexsandr almost reached out before he reconsidered and turned his face away, hiding against that soft fur all over again.

Reunions, and reconnections, could wait.

Escaping the complex was more important.

Alexsandr didn’t want to spend another moment longer in the complex than he had to. Not when Thrawn was prowling, no doubt on the hunt for the rebels now that the klaxon was sounding and the entire complex knew there’d been an infiltration. He’d be on the hunt for Garazeb, eager to capture and break the now infamous warrior, eager to finish the job he’d started and use him to shatter Alexsandr into jagged pieces.

Thrawn had come so close already, after all.

Alexsandr tightened his grip around the sliver of his meteorite again. He couldn’t let Thrawn get his hands on Garazeb. He _wouldn’t_ let him. Garazeb would escape the complex. With or without Alexsandr, it didn’t matter as long as Garazeb was alive. He clung to that thought as the Lasat sprinted down the corridor, leaping infrequently, with their companion hot on their heels. It wasn’t long until the three of them disappeared into the lift. Alexsandr couldn’t stop himself from whispering, “We’ll be outnumbered when the lift opens. They’ll be waiting for us.”

“I know,” Garazeb answered quietly, thumb stroking his thigh in a show of comfort. Alexsandr ignored the spark of pleasure and pain that shot through him. “But we’ll manage. The Empire has never managed to capture and keep us before. This time will be no different. The Ashla is watchin’ over us.”

“I wish I had that confidence.”

“Don’t worry; I have enough for both of us.” Garazeb patted his thigh once before pulling at something, unclipping something from a belt of some sort. Several things, it seemed. Alexsandr could hear the grin in his voice when Garazeb spoke again. “Get ready, Sasha. Goin’ to be makin’ some noise now.” 

Alexsandr braced himself for the explosion that would soon come, knowing the concussive blast would be almost deafening. He wouldn’t be able to block his ears, but the large presence of the Lasat in front of him might shield him somewhat. He drew in a lungful of that comforting scent just as the door to the lift slid open and a wall of blaster fire came straight toward them. 

It wasn’t a surprise to hear the iconic whir of a lightsaber, nor the quick tread of a Jedi on the move. It wasn’t a surprise to feel those powerful muscles bunching as Garazeb hurled one bomb after another, several explosions sounding in rapid succession. It wasn’t a surprise when Alexsandr flinched despite the warning, despite bracing, the sudden rush of sound threatening to hurl him straight back to Onderon.

Alexsandr clung to Garazeb tighter, earning a faint grunt.

But Garazeb didn’t drop him and dump him on the floor. He didn’t ask him to let go. He just cupped his thigh with one hand — in spite of all the furious cursing, in spite of the blaster fire raining down on them from all directions as Garazeb loped through smoke and fire. It was as though he knew Alexsandr was struggling, struggling to keep himself tethered to the present.

Of course, Garazeb knew. 

Alexsandr wasn’t certain either of them could forget that night on their moon or the conversations had in the cold darkness that surrounded them. He knew he couldn’t forget the droop of those ears or the sad shine in that green gaze. How Garazeb seemed to soften with compassion....and _understanding_ , if Alexsandr dared to think so. He couldn’t forget thinking Garazeb would sneer, and tell him that he deserved what that Lasat did to him because he was an Imperial. Nor could he forget the surprise he felt when that didn’t happen at all. 

His heart twisted at the knowledge that he’d once believed Garazeb was less than wonderful.

The Lasat in question dodged the blaster fire directed at them with an unexpected grace. His movements were fluid and easy, and also quicker and lighter than the Imperials seemed to expect. Not surprising, given that most Imperials viewed Garazeb Orrelios as nothing more than muscle — a beast with more brawn than brain.

But it didn’t surprise Alexsandr.

It couldn’t.

Not when half of his time in the sector was spent in battle with Garazeb, witnessing the speed with which the Lasat moved and the sheer drive that went into each powerful swing of his bo-rifle. Garazeb wasn’t just the muscle. He was cunning, clever, honourable, and fast. He was filled with compassion and mercy, most of all. He was a warrior worth facing, worth giving his life to.

Garazeb was worth surrendering his bo-rifle.

Alexsandr buried his face deeper in that soft fur, regret and grief sliding into his gut and twisting sharply, a blade that couldn’t be ignored. A hot well of shame followed a moment later. Shame that he hadn’t been able to prevent Thrawn from taking the bo-rifle, from claiming what wasn’t his to take. Shame that he hadn’t been able to protect that sacred weapon. Shame that he hadn’t returned it to Garazeb when he had the chance. His mouth twisted with emotion at the thought. Alexsandr should have given it back on Bahryn.

It would have been the honourable thing to do.

Alexsandr released a tremulous breath against his neck.

Garazeb stumbled. Most likely, he’d slipped on some debris while focused on the blaster fire. It didn’t matter what made him stumble, Alexsandr supposed as the Lasat braced a hand against the nearest wall and steadied himself. Moments later, Garazeb growled and hurled himself through the air, and straight through a wall of hot smoke that had Alexsandr flinching.

Alexsandr felt the collision with a pair of Imperials, and heard the sharp sounds of their fear before Garazeb silenced them with quick hands. He didn’t know if he’d killed them. He didn’t ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It was best left an uncertainty, Alexsandr realised. It was best to keep positive thoughts. It would help keep him from spiralling into the past. His nerves were stretched thin already, after all.

Garazeb kept moving, running now, and Alexsandr realised their path was clear as the Jedi in their midst kept pace with them easily, steps quick and light. He could hear the light whir of their lightsaber beside him. 

“Zeb, I... I can feel something calling me,” the Jedi said suddenly, surprised. The voice wasn’t deep, not when compared to Garazeb or Alexsandr or even Jarrus, but it carried its own masculine strength. One might even consider it handsome. 

Alexsandr turned his head toward him and frowned all over again.

“Shit. It must be the crystal in his bo-rifle.” 

Alexsandr would have blinked in surprise, if he could. As it was, he tensed against Garazeb immediately; he’d had no idea his bo-rifle contained a crystal. He’d never come across it when exploring its components or making his own personal modifications. How the fuck had he never found it? What switch or button had he missed? What compartment hadn’t he seen? Alexsandr almost burned with the urge to ask the questions barrelling through his mind. 

“I’ll get it —”

“Cal —”

“I have to, Zeb,” Cal answered.

His words were quick and firm. Determined. It proved that he’d grown from a scared child into a strong and independent man capable of taking care of himself. That knowledge alone made Alexsandr falter, made his thoughts stutter to a stop, and flooded him with disbelief and heartbreak and relief all at once.

Cal.

Alexsandr had suspected the Jedi at their side was Cal... but he hadn’t expected the confirmation to hurt quite this much. He hadn’t expected him to be a grown man that didn’t need Alexsandr to help or protect him now. Which was stupid. Years had passed since Cal had come to him for help on Coruscant. And it wasn’t as though Alexsandr could help the man now anyway, not when Thrawn had taken his sight — the most vital asset in his arsenal. 

“The Force is insisting,” Cal continued as he started to move away, putting distance between them. His voice grew a fraction louder. “And Master Jaro would never forgive me for letting the Empire keep such a sacred weapon in their grasp, if I had a chance to take it from them. I won’t be long. I promise.” 

“Cal! Cal, wait!”

It was Alexsandr speaking this time, his voice cracking, tight with growing emotion. He couldn’t help the spike of fear that shot through him. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out even though he knew his cousin was out of his reach. Cal was gone, gone like the wind through the trees, and who knew if he'd even be able to keep his word and return to them.

Garazeb didn’t stop running, not even for a moment. He didn’t even slow down. He continued with his apparent exit strategy, seeming to trust that Cal would return safe and sound because he’d made such a ridiculous, stupid promise to them.

Alexsandr wanted to bite him. He wanted to thrash against his back until the Lasat let him go, but he knew he couldn’t. He knew he couldn’t go tearing off after Cal in his condition. Between the loss of his vision and the weakness in his bruised body, Alexsandr was almost helpless. He wouldn’t be able to track his cousin through the maze of corridors. He wouldn’t be able to maintain his momentum for long and would collapse somewhere along the way, weak and dizzy, and defenceless.

Without a single weapon to his name. 

Alexsandr doubted Garazeb would even let him leave his side for a second. Not in his current condition. If Garazeb was anything, he was protective — even of his own enemy, and Alexsandr had ceased to be that a long time ago. Now, he and Garazeb were something else. That much was plain from the fashion in which the Lasat had cradled his face earlier. But he didn’t know how to describe them. He and Garazeb weren’t enemies, but weren’t friends either; their connection was strong, immutable, but nameless. Alexsandr couldn’t help wondering if the Lasat people had a term for such a situation.

But it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter what Garazeb was to him right now or vice versa.

Nothing mattered except their rapid pace through the complex.

His world dwindled down to the soft fur against his face, the muscles contracting and releasing against him as Garazeb moved. The familiar scent that filled his lungs. The rapid but controlled breaths that punctuated their flight through the complex as Garazeb ran down corridor after corridor, each step deliberate as his momentum propelled him on and on. 

Whenever Garazeb climbed into another lift or turned a new corner, Alexsandr expected something to stop them in their tracks — a group of troopers, an officer, _something_. And sometimes it happened...but Garazeb seemed to sense them coming, seemed to sense their blaster fire before a single shot was even fired. Garazeb reacted accordingly, leaping this way and that way, using his claws to find purchase against the walls before propelling himself at their enemies and taking them down with a few controlled sweeps.

At one point or another, Alexsandr felt Garazeb climb the nearest wall and latch onto the ceiling with his powerful claws, forcing him to tighten his grip to prevent himself from falling to the floor below. Almost immediately, the rush of blood to his head was both disorienting and uncomfortable. But he didn’t complain. Alexsandr knew he couldn’t. If Garazeb was climbing straight up to the ceiling, there had to be a reason.

Silently, his breath slowing, the Lasat waited until the sound of boots came from below and then the two of them plummeted between one heartbeat and the next. There came a loud and sickening crunch moments before Alexsandr felt his grip slipping. His stomach jumped into his mouth a heartbeat before his backside hit the floor, sending a sharp flare of pain through his pelvis and up his spine.

“Son of a _bitch_.”

The curse escaped with a strained snarl as his jaw clenched. Alexsandr tried to breathe through the pain flaring across his body; he was more susceptible to jarring blows now than he’d ever been before. He felt weak. He felt useless — like he wasn’t even worth the rescue attempt when he couldn’t even fall without succumbing to the pain now.

“Sasha? Are ya okay,” Garazeb asked quickly, his voice soft with sudden concern. 

Alexsandr tilted his head up towards him immediately, wishing he could see that green gaze and those ears, those sensitive little things that responded to whatever the Lasat felt. Longing burst hot and bright into his chest and Alexsandr turned his face away, his throat constricting around a sudden lump.

“I’m fine. Just...sore. Real fucking sore,” Alexsandr answered tightly, his lips thinning, “and shaky. I feel like another bump will unravel me at the seams.”

“I’m sorry; ya weren’t supposed to get hurt.” Gentle hands found him almost immediately, warm and protective. More than he’d ever deserved. Garazeb pulled him to his feet with ease and Alexsandr bit back the agonised noise that threatened to escape as standing put weight on his pelvis and lower back. Not to mention his accursed fucking legs, broken and healed more times than he could count now. “I didn’t mean for that to happen!”

“I know,” Alexsandr assured him quickly, leaning into the strength provided without an ounce of hesitation before allowing Garazeb to help him back up onto his back. Wrapping his legs around him hurt now, but it didn’t stop him from doing so. He could work through the pain. Alexsandr knew he could. He had to, if he wanted Garazeb to escape the complex without encountering the Grand Admiral or his Death Troopers. “You’re not to blame. The weight loss is just...taking its toll.”

“Karabast. I’m goin’ to kill that fuckin’ bastard.” Garazeb growled low, the sound rumbling up from deep within the barrel of his immense chest. The sound was strong and filled with palpable danger. It was the growl of a predator. Alexsandr couldn’t help shivering at the sound. “Nice and slow. Like he fuckin’ deserves.”

“You’ll have to get in line.”

Garazeb surprised him with a startled laugh as he took off running again.

“It won’t be long now,” the Lasat said sometime later, turning another corner. The fighting had petered out slowly, and the pair of them had passed through several vacant corridors since Alexsandr fell. “We’re just a few corridors from the door. Kanan and Ezra are up ahead.”

“You can see them?”

“No, but I can feel them. The path ahead is clear.”

“You’re force-sensitive,” Alexsandr asked in surprise, his lips parting in shock. “Your file never mentioned such abilities and I must have read it a dozen times.”

Garazeb snorted before snapping, “We don’t announce our gifts to the universe like some people. You’d know all about our abilities, if Imperials ever bothered to learn about and befriend people instead of just slaughterin’ them and takin’ their land.”

Alexsandr fell silent momentarily, his stomach twisting. The words stung, but Garazeb wasn’t wrong. The Empire wasn’t known for learning about the peoples it conquered. It waited long enough to find its weak spots before striking, snuffing them out as fast as possible to prevent a conflict long enough to rival the Clone Wars. Grand Admiral Thrawn was an exception to the rule. The Chiss loved to study, loved to dissect his enemy, and did so with relish.

Just the thought of Thrawn spiked his heart rate and threatened to constrict his chest.

Cold sweat broke out on his forehead and along the small of his back.

Alexsandr didn’t speak again. He couldn’t. Not when thoughts of Thrawn and his thirst to break them raged through his mind. An image of Garazeb strapped down and screaming, thrashing against his bindings, burned itself into his thoughts and Alexsandr knew the image would haunt his nightmares for a long time coming, knew he would wake up screaming with the Lasat’s name on his tongue.

Pain shot through the tendons in his wrist from gripping Garazeb’s battlesuit too hard.

His breath grew short and shallow, though Alexsandr tried his best to keep it even. But he could feel his emotions getting the better of him. He could feel the trauma responses spiking, pushing to take control. 

“Sasha?”

Alexsandr tried to dismiss his concern. He tried to tell him to keep going, to keep running as fast as he could. But the words wouldn’t come. The words were caught between his lungs, wedged in tight. A strangled noise escaped him and Alexsandr crushed his forehead against soft fur, one hand shooting to clutch at his own chest. Doing so trapped the remaining sliver of his meteorite against his sternum.

“Sasha?!”

Another strangled noise escaped him when Garazeb started slowing.

Alexsandr shook his head hard enough to make himself dizzy, forehead rubbing against that soft fur. He knew spots would be blossoming in his vision if he still had the privilege. But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except Garazeb and his escape from the complex before Thrawn found them.

Before Thrawn could get those vile hands on Garazeb.

Alexsandr grabbed a fistful of fur with his free hand and twisted sharply, earning a grunt of pain from Garazeb. He just managed to drag in enough breath to gasp, “Don’t. Stop. Keep. Going.”

“But —”

“Go!”

Alexsandr managed to drag in another gasping breath as Garazeb did as he was fucking told.

As Garazeb continued running, Alexsandr focused on his breathing, focused on expanding his chest until it almost pressed flush against Garazeb, focused on turning shallow breaths into deep, slow inhales that ached even as he calmed down. Gradually, his heartbeat returned to a more regulated pace. Finally, Alexsandr relaxed his grip and smoothed out the fur he’d ruffled in apology, his touch soft. 

Garazeb was just sliding around the corner up ahead when a soft noise came from behind them. Neither of them had a chance to swing their attention around before the sound of a blaster firing echoed through the corridor. A roar of pain escaped Garazeb, loud and heart-breaking, and his forward momentum sent them both crashing to the floor.

To Alexsandr, the sudden blow was jarring, his limbs threatening to shake apart at the joint as he rolled across the floor, bashing elbows, knees, and shoulders. Pain flared through him like fire. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about his own pain as the scent of an oncoming storm approached with measured footsteps.

Thrawn. 

Of course, it was Thrawn.

Without thinking, without _hesitating_ , Alexsandr scrambled to put himself between Thrawn and Garazeb, his fingers still curled tight around the remaining sliver of his meteorite as though his life depended on it. Soft fur brushed against his wrist as he tried and failed to block Garazeb from view. 

His heart twisted in his chest when large fingers wrapped around his arm and tried to pull him away, to protect him. Alexsandr resisted at once. He fought to remain where he was, between Thrawn and his prize. His throat tightened around a lump as Garazeb growled threateningly, the sound rippling straight past his ear. His tear ducts stung sharply; Alexsandr didn’t deserve his protection.

“How fascinating,” Thrawn said curiously, though his words carried hints of amusement and smug triumph. “I didn’t even have to look for him. He came straight to me. Perhaps there is some benefit to this _Force_ people speak of.”

His fault.

It was his fault.

Garazeb was in this mess because of _him_.

Alexsandr had to _do_ something.

“Reach for that detonator,” Thrawn added coldly, still approaching at a measured pace, “and I’ll shoot him in the head. Captain Orrelios, you might be fast...but I am faster, I assure you.”

Garazeb stilled at once. 

_Do something_ , Alexsandr told himself even as that growling voice at the back of his mind rose to utter the exact same sentiment. _You have to do something_! 

The sliver of his meteorite pulsed against his palm.

_For Garazeb_ , Alexsandr told himself. He had no weapons. He had no vision. But he still had something, something Thrawn didn’t know he had. Something no one but Cal and Mila knew he had. He had the spark. Determination flooded through him even as his heart twisted with terror and Alexsandr wrenched his arm free before staggering to his feet. 

Surprisingly, Thrawn didn’t shoot him the second he moved. It seemed the Chiss was too curious for his own good and that suited Alexsandr just fine. The longer Thrawn underestimated him and his abilities, the better.

“You think you can stop me, Agent Kallus?”

“I know I can.”

Alexsandr ignored the worried voice behind him as he stepped forward and raised his chin in defiance. His chest heaved sharply, adrenaline chasing the pain from his limbs as he reached inside himself and slammed that hidden door open. The spark flooded through him in an instant and ignited the current inside him.

Suddenly, Alexsandr could see Thrawn. Not as he’d seen him before. Not in shapes and expressions. But as he’d once seen people when the spark lived within his skin regularly, a constant companion. Thrawn didn’t glow like the people he’d once loved or watched passing through the streets outside the window. The current within the Grand Admiral wasn’t warm and inviting, or healthy, but sick and rotted to the core.

It was a green so dark it was almost black. 

It was like looking at his father.

His emotions flaring sharply, almost wildly, Alexsandr flung his arm out instinctively, his hand clawing at the air as the current within him exploded outwards. Something pulled in his gut. It was almost like a muscle — a muscle he hadn’t used for over two decades and it _hurt_.

Alexsandr stepped forward as his grip tightened and a snarl escaped him. That odd muscle in his gut shifted a moment later, morphing into a sharp pressure in his head. Something popped inside his head and something slid over his upper lip, warm and wet.

Blood.

The pressure increased in increments.

It was almost unbearable.

Alexsandr didn’t care. He didn’t care as the sounds of choking reached his ears. He didn’t care as the threads of dark green highlighting one of those vile hands rose to claw at that elegant neck with obvious desperation. He didn’t care as Thrawn staggered back a step, almost buckling where he stood.

If anything, the pain fuelled him.

It reminded him of the hours spent biting back his screams. It reminded him of the endless meals he’d vomited into the toilet and the weight he’d lost until he almost didn’t have the strength to walk. It reminded him of the anguish that flooded through him as that hammer came down again and again and again and crushed the one thing tethering him to Garazeb to dust.

Hate flared hot inside him.

His face twisted with rage.

And then a voice, soft and shaking, spoke from behind Alexsandr.

“Sasha, don’t.” A large hand wrapped around his calf and squeezed gently, doing its best to catch his attention. Alexsandr almost staggered back a step, feeling the warmth of his hand through the leg of his jumpsuit. “Don’t give in to the hate. Not for me.”

The hate in his heart stuttering, Alexsandr looked between one man and the other and _hesitated_. He hesitated to let go, hesitated to pull the spark back inside himself.

If he let go, it was all over; he didn’t have the strength to change course, to use his spark in a different fashion. Thrawn would recover before the pair of them could escape and he’d take them both into custody; he’d break them both. He’d pull the information he wanted from their broken bodies.

But if he didn’t let go, Alexsandr risked losing what little respect he’d earned from Garazeb.

That thought made him sick to his stomach.

Alexsandr staggered back a step, his legs like gelatine. He could feel his control slipping as the nausea rose in his gut. A terrified noise escaped him as Thrawn managed to drag in a sharp breath and his spark flared reflexively, tightening its grasp.

“Sasha,” Garazeb whispered. His hand tightened around his calf. “Sasha, please. Let him go.”

“But I —”

“Let go.”

Alexsandr couldn’t stop the broken sob from escaping him as his control slipped further. He couldn’t stop his knees from buckling, couldn’t stop himself from hitting the floor. He couldn’t stop himself from shaking as Garazeb drew him back quickly, pulled him right back against his chest and wrapped his powerful arms tight around him.

That familiar second sight distorted and weakened.

Just before it faded completely, Alexsandr glimpsed something bright and beautiful approaching fast as Thrawn coughed and sputtered as he clutched at the base of his neck and staggered against the nearest wall. It moved faster than he’d ever seen someone move before. The violent whir of a lightsaber sounded just as his control of the spark vanished and the spark disappeared through the door hidden within him.

The door within him slammed shut.

A ragged scream of intense pain tore through the air moments before three sudden thumps echoed down the corridor in quick succession. Something clattered to the floor and went skittering across its surface.

The blaster, Alexsandr realised with a jolt.

“Time to go,” Cal announced fiercely, his steps loud now as he closed the distance between them fast. He grabbed Alexsandr, pulling him to his feet without warning, pulling him from the safe and protective confines of those strong arms. “Zeb, can you walk?”

“Yeah,” Garazeb breathed. His obvious shock didn’t stop him from adding, “Yeah, I think so. Just give me a hand up, Cal. Ankle fuckin’ hurts like a bitch.”

Cal helped him at once and soon the three of them were moving together, with Cal supporting Alexsandr and Garazeb limping along beside them. 

Alexsandr couldn’t stop himself from reaching out. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing one of those large hands fiercely, reassuring himself that Garazeb was breathing, even if he was wounded and struggling to walk beside them.

Garazeb was breathing. He was alive and that meant more to Alexsandr than the world around him. It meant more to him than his sight. It meant more to him than even his own life. 

Shaking, Alexsandr squeezed his hand.

Garazeb squeezed right back.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Glad y'all enjoyed the last chapter, thank you for all the comments and kudos! It's really appreciated!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what y'all think of this one :D

The trek to the shuttle was a blur of whirling lightsabers, the sound of a bo-rifle and blasters firing, and the rapid stumbling of feet that struggled to hold his weight after his escapade with the Grand Admiral. Alexsandr was dizzy, weak and shaking, and blood was still dripping from his nose. But he didn’t stop running. Couldn’t stop. Determination alone carried him to the waiting shuttle, a large hand forcing his head down to avoid a blaster bolt just as he reached the ramp. 

The sudden pressure buckled him at once.

Alexsandr fell to his knees, breathing hard. His knees burned from the harsh impact with the ramp. Pain flared up through his thighs. But he wasn’t down for long; Garazeb seized the back of his jumpsuit and hauled him into his arms without hesitation. The Lasat carried him the rest of the way, muffling a pained grunt as his wounded ankle took on the extra weight.

Two lightsabers whirred behind them and deflected an almost constant barrage of blaster bolts even as Cal ran past Alexsandr and Garazeb, moving deeper into the shuttle. Presumably, he’d gone straight to the cockpit to lend his abilities to their escape. Moments later, the shuttle rose swiftly, the door still open to allow the Jedi to cover their escape from the complex. 

Alexsandr couldn’t stop shaking, his side now pressed flush against Garazeb, who’d dropped into the nearest seat with a grunt. The harness came down to secure him in place as the shuttle continued to gain speed. A strangled noise escaped him as the weight of what transpired started to set in. 

He’d used the spark.

Thrawn knew what he was now — what he’d been all along, right under their noses.

Before long, the whole Empire would know he had the spark. The price on his head — and there would be one within hours of their escape — would shoot through the roof. Bounty Hunters would be foaming at the mouth to get their hands on him. And that wasn’t even taking the Inquisitors into account.

The Empire would never stop hunting him. 

His lungs seized without warning. His throat constricted. A painful spasm ran through his muscles, contracting them sharply, threatening to rip tendons and ligaments as his mind started to spiral out of his control at the thought of those red lightsabers bearing down on him. At the thought of their minds probing into his, ripping through his memories, tearing open his secrets.

As though he’d sensed the rapid churn of his emotions, Garazeb pressed a hand flat against his chest. Its weight was warm and soothing. All the while, he murmured softly, “Just focus on breathin’ for me. Focus on movin’ that hand. Feel it rise and fall with each breath.”

Alexsandr struggled to do as instructed and managed a small sip of air.

“That’s it. Just like that.” Garazeb stroked a gentle thumb over his sternum and Alexsandr managed to take another small breath. Slowly, so slowly, breathing came easier under the gentle instruction and encouragement from Garazeb. “You’re doin’ great.”

Alexsandr heard the motorised grind of the ramp rising, the door closing, and knew the shuttle was out of firing range from the weapons below. But it wasn’t over. Moments later, the shuttle was manoeuvring wildly, dodging an aerial bombardment from above even as it continued its rapid ascent. It wouldn’t be long until it punched through the upper atmosphere and launched itself straight into the middle of the blockade. As skilled as the pilots were, Alexsandr knew it would be a miracle if their little shuttle managed to escape the blockade.

“Don’t even think about that.” Garazeb spoke firmly, but quietly, pulling his attention right back to him and to the hand still pressing against his chest. It also brought his attention to the warm breath now fanning over his ear, tickling the curve of his jaw, and ghosting down the length of his neck. “Let the pilots do the thinkin’. Let them do the frettin’. Right now, yer job is to focus on me and remain calm. Think ya can do that?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr breathed carefully, turning his attention back to the rise and fall of his chest. He rubbed his thumb along the familiar edge of his meteorite, taking comfort from its warmth as he often did. It almost seemed to pulse in time with his slowing heartbeat. “I think I can. Now.”

“Good.”

Garazeb remained a constant presence as the shuttle continued its wild and rapid manoeuvres to avoid the bombardment. He kept up a calm stream of chatter, discussing everything and nothing, and kept his attention focused on him. 

But the calmer Alexsandr grew, the weaker he became. A weariness worse than he’d ever experienced before settled into his bones, burrowing deep into the marrow within. Whatever scrap of strength or adrenaline he’d had left vanished completely, reducing him to little more than a limp noodle. Alexsandr was slumped in his seat before long, the harness alone keeping him in place.

That large hand moved from his chest to his head.

Gentle claws grazed against his scalp.

Alexsandr sighed and relaxed further, his head beginning to weigh him down. Gradually, his sense of awareness faded to nothing.

* * *

A hand brushed against his forehead tenderly, brushing his hair back in a fashion so familiar that his heart ached. The hand was small and feminine, but carried its own brand of strength. It felt cool against his feverish skin.

“Mama…” 

“Not quite,” said a gentle voice. Alexsandr could hear her smile. “You can call me Hera.”

Hera.

Captain Syndulla.

The _Ghost_. He was on the _Ghost_.

Garazeb was safe.

Alexsandr couldn’t have stopped the tears even if he’d tried.

* * *

Alexsandr felt like a sack of steaming shit when he woke to the sound of familiar engines hissing, allowed to cool at last. He was hot and sticky, and gross. His loose jumpsuit clung to his skin with sweat in several uncomfortable places. Alexsandr was so preoccupied with himself that it took him a moment or so to register the scent assailing his senses.

It was earthen and woodsy, familiar. It carried a strong undercurrent of spice and smoke. It reminded him of a steaming shot of Trandoshan whiskey, a drink strong enough to break those with weak stomachs. A drink that Alexsandr had seen as a challenge when he was a cadet at the Royal Academy, downing one shot after another with a gleam in his gaze as his fellow cadets watched avidly, waiting for him to start coughing and retching all over himself. 

Garazeb.

The scent belonged to Garazeb.

It was all over the pillow beneath his head. It was buried in the mattress beneath him. It hung in the air, permeating the room around him. 

Alexsandr released a tremulous breath and reached out blindly, searching for the Lasat with a shaking hand. But he found nothing. He was alone in the bunk. A small wave of disappointment washed through him as the realisation settled in his chest like a lead weight. Alexsandr knew his disappointment was ridiculous, even pointless, but that didn’t make it easier to endure. 

Sighing, Alexsandr sat up on the bunk carefully, one hand reaching upwards to ensure he wasn’t going to smack his head off another bunk. He didn’t know what the sleeping arrangements were like on the _Ghost_. Perhaps Garazeb had a bunkmate. His suspicions were confirmed when his hand found a bunk over his head. It hung lower than he’d like. Keeping his head low and gripping the edge of the bunk tightly, Alexsandr eased himself to his feet and paused as his muscles wobbled briefly, weak as water. 

Carefully, Alexsandr moved along the length of the bunk until he found the wall. A moment or so later, his hand brushed against something and it fell with a loud clatter. He cursed before crouching carefully, one hand still braced against the wall and the other patting the floor for whatever he’d knocked. Alexsandr had just picked it up and eased out of his crouched position when the door slid open somewhere to his left.

The pronounced limp told him who it was.

“I’m sorry,” Alexsandr said quietly, his face heating with no small amount of mortification. His fingers tightened around the item clutched in his hands. “I didn’t mean to knock it off the wall. It was an accident.”

“It’s...uh...fine.” Alexsandr could almost hear Garazeb rubbing the back of his neck. He could almost imagine the shift of his ears and how the Lasat might avoid looking at him for a moment or so. “I made it sturdy, so it won’t break. I wanted it to last.”

“You... _made_ this?” Alexsandr turned his attention towards the item in his hands and studied it as well as he could. It had a decent weight and its edges were smooth. Ducking his head down a fraction allowed him to detect a hint of wood and lacquer. Alexsandr ran his fingers over the front of the piece, a small smile of quiet wonder curling his lips as he felt the grooves in its surface even though he couldn’t determine what the carving depicted. “What is it?” 

“You.” The embarrassment Garazeb felt now was blatant. It underscored his speech. He hastened to explain what he meant and his embarrassment intensified with each word that escaped him. “I mean. You’d died or so I thought at the time. And I didn’t have a picture. So... I made one. To remember ya. Ya deserved to be mourned.” 

“You…” Alexsandr swallowed thickly, the word sticking in his throat for a moment as he lifted his head and turned his face towards Garazeb. Unexpected emotion spiked through his chest. His hands clamped tight around the carving in his grasp. He tried again. “You mourned me?”

“You’re a rebel now. I mourn all the rebels we lose.”

Oh.

Alexsandr ignored the sudden pain in his chest as he turned his attention back to the carving in his hands. He pushed aside the disappointment he felt. His own personal feelings for the Lasat didn’t matter. It was foolish to think Garazeb might have felt the same in return. Really, being remembered at all was more than he’d deserved and he was grateful that Garazeb chose to remember him despite all the terrible things he’d done in the past. 

“You didn’t have to mourn me.”

“Well. I know that now,” Garazeb groused. Alexsandr realised he’d missed the point he’d been making when the Lasat went on to say, “Ya aren’t dead. Anyway, Hera sent me to tell ya that you’re welcome to use the shower before the rest of us disembark. She figured ya might want to enjoy some comfort before bein’ poked and prodded in the medbay, ya know.”

“I’d like that.” His throat constricted around a sudden lump. “I’d like that very much. I don’t suppose someone could spare some clean clothes? I’m not fond of the idea of wearing this jumpsuit again.”

“Of course,” Garazeb said quietly, his embarrassment replaced with compassion. He limped past Alexsandr, pulled open a drawer or something similar, and rummaged through its contents before returning. “Here. It’ll be loose, but it should do for now. And the belt should help somewhat.”

Alexsandr exchanged the carving for a bundle of clothes that felt soft to the touch. He almost buried his face in it for the sheer relief of touching something soft. Something that wasn’t the damned jumpsuit hanging off his frame.

“Oh. And Chopper has yer meteorite. Or what's left of it.” The words snapped his attention back to Garazeb. His hands tightened around the bundle of clothes in his grasp as Garazeb added gently, “Ya dropped it on the shuttle when ya passed out. Figured it would be best to pick it up and bring it on to the _Ghost_ with us. I gave it to Chopper to look after.”

“Thank you.”

"S'nothin’."

_You’re wrong,_ Alexsandr almost said. He couldn’t help squeezing the bundle of clothes closer to his chest. He couldn’t help wondering if Garazeb could hear the stutter in his heartbeat. _You don’t know how much it means to me. That meteorite. What it represents. How much it helped me when I was a Fulcrum Agent._

“I appreciate it all the same.” Alexsandr ducked his head a fraction and wished he could see. He wished he could latch his attention on something and distract himself from his own thoughts and the Lasat standing so close to him. “But I should go for that shower now. We shouldn’t linger too long on the ship; your ankle needs treatment.”

“Nah. I’ve been treated already,” Garazeb said easily, a warm note in his voice. He clapped him on the shoulder with tenderness. “But thanks for the concern. You’re the one goin’ to the medbay, Sasha. We cleaned up that nosebleed and treated that sudden spike of fever, but we didn’t want to overstep boundaries. Ya weren’t conscious enough to consent. You’ve had enough liberties taken.”

Warmth bloomed in his chest. A small smile curled his lips against his will. No one had taken his wishes or his boundaries into consideration in so long — not even the medical droids that tended to him at the complex. Of course, Alexsandr knew the droids didn’t have a choice: the orders given to them were absolute. There was no room for wasted time or hesitance.

“C’mon. I’ll guide ya to the refresher.”

Alexsandr twitched with no small amount of surprise when Garazeb snared one of his hands and tugged it close, tucking it around his elbow. Soft fur tickled his palm. He didn’t resist the gesture, nor the gentle pull as Garazeb guided him out into the corridor. He lingered close to his side instead. Alexsandr took comfort from his proximity, from his warmth and strength.

It wasn’t a surprise to learn the refresher was just a few doors down.

Alexsandr pulled his hand free almost as soon as he crossed the threshold. Frowning, and humming thoughtfully, he began his exploration of the room despite his lingering audience. If Garazeb was amused or even curious, he didn’t make it obvious. He just watched as Alexsandr measured the room with careful steps and calculations, locating the shower, toilet, sink, a tall cabinet, and a small bin. It wasn’t a huge refresher, but it sufficed the needs of those onboard easily, Alexsandr noted.

“Are there towels in the cabinet?”

“Yeah. And toiletries.”

“Good.” Alexsandr ran a hand over his beard and grimaced deeply, itching to bring a razor to his face and return to his usual tidiness. But he knew he couldn’t risk shaving. Not when he couldn’t see and his hands weren’t at their best. That would have to wait. For now, a hot shower would be more than enough to meet his needs. Alexsandr set the bundle of clothes down on the lid of the toilet and turned to Garazeb, adding hesitantly, “You’ll tell Captain Hera that I’m grateful?”

“Commander,” Garazeb corrected with an obvious smile in his voice. His pride was almost palpable. “But she’s gone to scrounge up some boots, so thankin’ her will have to wait until she comes back. Anyway, I’ll leave ya to it. If ya need anythin’, give a shout.” 

Alexsandr dipped his head in acknowledgement and waited until Garazeb left before tearing open his jumpsuit and peeling it from his skin with another grimace. He stepped out of the jumpsuit and his months-old underwear carefully, kicking them aside as soon as he had. His hands curled into fists as he directed a hateful expression at the heap of fabric, wanting nothing more than to set it on fire. Turning his face away, Alexsandr focused instead on fetching a towel and some toiletries from the cabinet. 

Unsure what brands were facing him, Alexsandr made his selection based on scent. He sniffed at various bottles before settling on one that reminded him of jogan fruit. It reminded him of his mother and it ached in the best way; she’d loved jogan fruit. Armed with his choice, Alexsandr moved towards the shower and hung his towel on the outside railing before climbing inside with due care.

Alexsandr set the shampoo down and ran his hands over the shower, feeling for the buttons and dials he’d have to use. He was relieved to find it was a standard model. He wouldn’t have to experiment to find the temperatures he desired. Sighing happily, Alexsandr didn’t hesitate to start the shower, starting with a moderate heat since he hadn’t been exposed to a hot shower in so long and didn’t want to risk burning.

Even with the heat low, Alexsandr couldn’t help groaning when water spilled down over his head and soaked into his hair in seconds. He bowed his head a fraction and braced an arm against the wall with a sigh of pleasure. He luxuriated in the rush of water over his body, spilling down over the sharp curve of his shoulders and following the long lines of his limbs, tickling his palms and feet.

_Fuck._ _That feels so good_.

Leaning into the water, Alexsandr turned the temperature up slowly, allowing the heat to increase. Each increment felt better than the last. He almost wanted to cry, it felt so good. He nibbled at his scarred lip instead. He curled his fingers and toes for a moment or so before reaching up and running his hands over his hair, tugging his fingers through the strands carefully, ensuring each lock was as wet as the last.

Finally, Alexsandr picked up the shampoo and squeezed a dollop out onto his palm. Humming softly, he lathered his hair with careful dedication and gentle enthusiasm. He massaged his fingertips into his scalp for the first time in months, pressing into the spots that often caused tension headaches, and let out a low groan at how good it felt to return to his usual shower routine. Alexsandr didn’t rinse his hair until he could feel the lather climbing up his wrists, tickling him as the small bubbles blossomed and popped in turn.

Gradually, Alexsandr worked down the length of his body, a second dollop of shampoo in his palm. He started with his neck and beard. He washed it gently, carefully, lamenting the mutton chops that used to frame his mouth. His arms and shoulders were next. Slowly, his hands moved lower and lower. Unfortunately, his bruises hurt to touch no matter how gentle his hands were. Alexsandr breathed through the pain as he’d learned to do during his training with the ISB, knowing the bruises would fade with time — even if the scars from his months of torture never would.

The scars — inside and out — were a different beast altogether.

Alexsandr didn’t want to think about them. He focused on how wonderful it felt to feel clean. He focused on the water swirling past his feet and disappearing down the drain to be filtered and recycled at some point in the future. He focused on the tickle across the soles of his feet as he scrubbed them with his nails with one hand while bracing against the wall with the other.

Simultaneously, it felt like he’d been in the shower for an eternity, and for far too short a time for his liking, when Alexsandr emerged at last. A light shiver rippled through his frame before he snatched the towel from the rail beside him. He dried himself quickly, but carefully, unwilling to do more damage to his skin when it was in such a tender state. Alexsandr saved his beard and hair for last. 

Finally, Alexsandr turned his attention to the bundle of clothes Garazeb had given him. He’d given him a tunic of some sort and something that felt like leggings, though it came with drawstrings at the waistband. Certainly, he’d need the drawstrings to keep them up, having lost so much weight during his imprisonment. His lips curled around a snarl of anger for a moment or so before he focused on dressing. The tunic felt more like a dress when Alexsandr slipped it over his head. It settled loosely, slipping down to reveal his shoulders before catching at the top of his arms. The sleeves pooled around his wrists and the hem almost reached his knees. The neckline gaped slightly, but it still kept the scars carved across his chest and stomach from view and Alexsandr couldn’t contain his relief.

The leggings were so long and loose, he was almost swimming in them.

Alexsandr thanked his stars for the drawstrings that just about managed to keep them secured around his hips. But he knew that too much vigorous movement and it wouldn’t be long until the leggings slipped down past his hips all the same. At least he had a tunic, if the universe decided that more things needed to go wrong in his life. Surprisingly, the belt Garazeb provided had enough notches to allow him to secure it tightly, drawing the material of the tunic closer to his waist. Alexsandr felt more secure in his appearance with the belt cinched so well. 

The bundle of clothes Garazeb gave him didn’t include socks, but that didn’t surprise him in the least. It wasn’t as though the Lasat wore them himself. Garazeb didn’t even wear shoes. Not even during battle.

That was something Alexsandr struggled to wrap his head around at times.

Alexsandr couldn’t imagine leaving himself so vulnerable to an attack. Of course, he was a lot more breakable than Garazeb, even when he’d been at his strongest and fittest. One swipe from one of those powerful hands could tear his face off. One would have to be brave enough or foolish enough to get close to an almost seven-foot Lasat in order to hurt those large and impressive feet. Far too easily, Garazeb could tear through those brave or foolish enough to make the attempt.

There wasn’t an Imperial alive who’d face a Lasat in close combat. 

Not after his experiences on Onderon.

Except him.

Alexsandr had faced Lasats in close combat on Lasan. He’d faced them in spite of his fear, his thirst to prove himself driving him. Where other Imperials fired blasters from a distance, he’d charged into battle with an electrostaff in hand as blaster bolts ripped past him. He could still remember the weight of it in his hands, the violent crackle of its electrical discharge, and how its light gleamed across shining armour. How beautiful it seemed in the reflection of one of the various fountains in the capital.

And he’d faced Garazeb on countless occasions since then.

Alexsandr couldn’t decide whether he’d been brave or foolish for doing so, for subjecting himself to that strength and that rage, that drive to avenge his people. But he supposed it didn’t matter in the long run. It wasn’t as though he’d ever fight again. Not in his condition. He’d tried to fight before and he’d failed. His loss of sight was a weakness. It made him a liability, a weak link in the chain of the rebellion. Alexsandr bowed his head and ignored the twisting pain in his heart at the thought of his uselessness, of the waste of resources he’d soon become. 

Unlike Jarrus, Alexsandr wasn’t willing to keep using the spark. Extenuating circumstances had driven him to let the spark in on Lothal. But he couldn’t face the thought of doing it again. He couldn’t face the idea of seeing people like Thrawn — like his _father_ — again. There was too much pain associated with the spark and with those rotten circuits for him to consider it. 

An image of his mother flickered across his mind.

Alexsandr flinched and turned away, his shoulders hunching, wrapping his arms around himself in an effort to ward off his memories. He needed a distraction and fast or he’d slip too far into his memories for his liking. After a moment or so, he looked for a comb and found one in the cabinet. He hesitated before using it to untangle his beard and then his hair, the motion comforting.

Once he was done, Alexsandr left the refresher with one last hateful expression directed at the jumpsuit he’d cast away, hoping someone would burn it on his behalf. Because he couldn’t stomach the thought of touching it again.

Not after spending several months in it.

Almost seven months, if the words of Hera during his fever were to be believed. 

Slowly, Alexsandr moved down the corridor, one hand feeling along the wall. His mouth twisted as the cuffs of his leggings threatened to trip him repeatedly, slipping under his soles with each step. It was uncomfortable. It sent a jolt of unwanted fear through him whenever he slipped against the metal decking, his fingers scrabbling at the wall beside him. But Alexsandr persevered nonetheless.

Gradually, faint noises caught his attention up ahead — something mechanical and then a soft laugh. A smile softened his face as he realised who it was. Garazeb and Chopper, the astromech. His favourite person in the universe and a droid. It was a relief to know he wasn’t alone in the void.

Alexsandr had almost reached them when a third voice caught him off guard.

“Kallus,” Hera said brightly, an unexpected warmth in her voice.

But the warmth in her voice didn’t make it easier to hear his surname spoken aloud. It took a monumental effort to refrain from flinching, from showing how hearing his name affected him after seven months of nothing but torture while it was hissed or snarled in his ear. Or spoken in that slick aristocratic voice he’d come to know so well. His hands cramped with the effort it took to keep his fingers from curling, from clenching into fists at his side.

“I come bearing boots and socks!”

“And I appreciate it.” Alexsandr inclined his head in a show of genuine gratitude and respect despite how much he wanted to turn and walk away, to disappear into the ship and never hear his surname voiced again. But he knew it wasn’t something he could escape for now. The Empire knew him as Agent Alexsandr Kallus and so did the Rebel Alliance. Much like his iconic mutton chops, his surname was a part of him that couldn’t be forgotten. Not easily, at least. But Alexsandr pushed the thought aside as he accepted the offered items and added quietly, “And I appreciate the use of the shower as well. I left the jumpsuit in the refresher, Commander, as I didn’t want to touch it again.”

“Understandable.” Alexsandr could almost hear her nodding to punctuate her compassion. “I’ll have Ezra get rid of it later. And please...do call me Hera. I’d prefer it.”

Alexsandr hesitated before nodding. It would be best to please the Commander and her crew, to do his best to endear himself to them. It wouldn’t be easy, he knew. Not after all he’d done in the past. Clearly, however, his work as a Fulcrum Agent had caused their opinions to shift enough to risk rescuing him from a planet locked behind an Imperial blockade. Alexsandr still felt he hadn’t deserved their efforts, but it was a start.

Gripping the socks and boots tightly, Alexsandr couldn’t help asking, “Is there a chair around here somewhere?” 

_Yes_ , warbled Chopper in binary, his voice loud compared to Alexsandr and Hera. _Over here_.

Something latched on to the end of his tunic and tugged. It took a moment or so to realise it was Chopper, having grabbed him with one of his metal clamps. The astromech led him to a table nearby; Alexsandr almost bumped into it before Chopper stopped him with a sharp tug on his tunic and another quick warble. 

Shifting the items in his arms carefully, Alexsandr reached down and patted his dome with a gentle hand. He couldn’t stop himself from saying, “You’re a wonderful droid. Resourceful and clever, brave, and helpful. Really, those are some of the best qualities someone could have at a time like this. Hera and the others are fortunate to have you.”

Chopper responded with a whir of surprised delight and then patted the back of his hand with a metal clamp, parroting the affection Alexsandr had shown him a moment earlier.

“I’ve never seen that rust bucket take to someone so fast. He never welcomed me like that.”

“Insults aren’t conducive to a good relationship,” Alexsandr responded tartly, tilting his head and smiling at the astromech even as he slid onto the bench beside the table. He soon found himself almost flush against Garazeb, his familiar warmth pressing along his back. “Isn’t that right?”

_Depends on the relationship_ , Chopper replied before devolving into what sounded like maniacal laughter. The astromech rushed away, adding loudly, _Zeb can go fuck himself. But I’d still save his useless butt_.

Alexsandr couldn’t help grinning as Garazeb cursed behind him and threw something after the astromech. Whatever it was, it hit the wall with a loud clatter before bouncing off the floor and skittering across its metal surface. He ducked his head and focused on pulling on his newfound socks to prevent himself from laughing and perhaps alienating the Lasat behind him. It was almost strange to feel the urge to laugh after so long, and stranger still to have it be a laugh filled with something akin to happiness.

But he wasn’t going to complain.

No, no. Alexsandr had no reason to complain. He was free. Garazeb was safe. And he’d found a new friend in a clever droid that couldn’t see a reason not to help him. Clearly, Chopper was another example of compassion and mercy, regardless of what Garazeb believed about the astromech.

Knowing Chopper was protecting the remaining sliver of his meteorite was a relief. Aside from Cal and Garazeb, Alexsandr couldn’t imagine trusting someone else with something so precious to him. But he knew Chopper would keep it safe until Alexsandr was in a position to retrieve it from him — that much was clear.

With his boots and socks now in place, Alexsandr rose to his feet and squared his shoulders. It was time to step onto the base at long last. It was time to face the people he’d tried to protect as Fulcrum. 

It was time to find wherever he belonged.

If he belonged anywhere.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the almost late update! I forgot it was Saturday!

Despite his determination to set foot on the base, Alexsandr still found himself hesitating at the top of the ramp, after Garazeb had helped him down the ladder to the cargo bay, large hands firm around his hips as he’d steadied him during his careful descent. Alexsandr hesitated for two reasons.

The first reason was the knowledge that people would stare; their attention would be drawn straight to the sunken eyelids that announced his blindness. The particular, and rather disturbing, cause for his blindness had never failed to catch the attention of others when he was in public — the sunken eyelids looked _wrong_ , Alexsandr knew. Whether the rebels would be as horrified or as filled with sick satisfaction as the Imperials he’d been paraded in front of remained to be seen.

The second reason was the stifling wall of humid heat. Just being at the edge of such heat made him prickle with discomfort. While it was better than freezing, Alexsandr knew it wouldn’t take long for him to burn — not after seven months of being trapped indoors, unable to see the sun or feel its kiss on his skin.

“Don’t worry,” Hera said gently, her voice coming from a few feet ahead of him — as though she’d sensed his hesitation behind her. “We know it’ll take a while to acclimatise to the heat on this planet. Most of us burned for the first few weeks after we arrived. But we have enough lotion to go around.”

“Right.”

Alexsandr continued to hesitate, his fingers curling around the loose cuffs of his sleeves — an action his fingers hadn’t taken since he was a child. It was one of the reasons he’d started wearing shorter sleeves when attending the Royal Academy; he hadn’t wanted to show his nerves, his weaknesses, to his fellow cadets. His shoulders and lower back ached with tension now. His wrists cramped. Alexsandr told himself to keep walking, to _move_ , but his legs refused to budge.

“Alright there, Sasha?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr answered immediately, speaking through clenched teeth. He deflated a moment later when Garazeb snorted in derisive disbelief behind him. Reluctantly, he admitted quietly, “No. I’m not alright. People will stare.”

“Oh.” An awkward silence fell for a moment. Alexsandr could almost hear Garazeb rubbing the back of his neck with one of his large hands. He could almost hear the faint scratch of sharp claws combing through fur. Finally, Garazeb asked hesitantly, “You...ah...know that from experience?”

“Yes.” The clipped response dropped like a bomb, making the awkwardness a hundred times worse. “Thrawn had me paraded through the complex on Lothal as an example to the other Imperials. It was...quite uncomfortable.”

“Karabast.”

A moment of silence passed and then Alexsandr heard a faint rustling. The sound of something unclipping followed a moment later, with another faint rustling hot on its heels. Finally, that clipping noise returned as Garazeb finished whatever he was doing. 

“Here.”

Garazeb shoved something into his hands — a stretch of fabric. It was soft and warm. It was also long, Alexsandr realised as he ran his fingers over its length. It didn’t take long to realise what it was when he reached up and secured it in place, blindfolding himself and hiding his sunken eyelids from view. Its twin tails hung down past his shoulders, tickling his bare skin. The material smelled of blaster oil and Garazeb, of warmth and safety, comfort and protection.

It was the wrapping from his bo-rifle.

Alexsandr murmured his thanks and continued down the ramp, doing his best to keep his breath even as the humid heat enveloped him. It was even worse than he’d feared. The prickling of his skin worsened with each step he took and his lungs struggled to handle the dense moisture in the air. Within seconds, Alexsandr was hot and sticky, sweat drenching his skin as Garazeb guided him across the base, helping him keep his balance whenever the toe of his boot caught on uneven ground.

He’d just showered and now he felt disgusting all over again. 

_Don’t worry; you can have another shower_ , that rumbling growl at the back of his mind reminded him. _You don’t have to dread weeks of filth or being hosed with frostbitten water. You’re free now. You can shower as needed._

_I’m free now_ , Alexsandr repeated to himself. He almost nodded to punctuate the thought as it flashed through his mind. Instead he dug his fingers into the meat of Garazeb’s elbow, keeping himself grounded to the present.

Garazeb patted his hand as though he knew what Alexsandr was thinking, both the worries and his own internal reassurances. Perhaps he did. Garazeb could use the Force, after all — just like the Jedi and the Inquisitors. And Alexsandr knew just how adept the Inquisitors were at reading thoughts; he’d seen them in action so often when he’d worked for the ISB.

But he didn’t want to think about that. 

It seemed to take forever to reach the medbay, or at least Alexsandr thought so. But that might have been the humid air talking, his lungs having to work extra hard to get him across the base without dropping to his hands and knees, struggling to breathe. And it wouldn’t surprise him to learn he’d been scorched walking from the _Ghost_ to the medbay, no matter how long or short the trek might have been.

The medbay, fortunately, was cool. It also lacked that horrible dense air. Most likely, a combination of the ancient stone he’d brushed with his fingertips and dehumidifiers were making the space more bearable, considering it was an area intended for healing.

Suffocating on hot air wouldn’t help wounded rebels heal from their injuries, after all.

Unlike an Imperial medbay, the one on the base didn’t smell of chemical sterilisation. Certainly, it smelled clean. But it also carried a natural scent of stone, an undercurrent of moss, and a stronger note of soil and the perfume of various plants. It was a pleasant and welcoming scent that helped him relax in an instant.

Alexsandr couldn’t help turning, frowning curiously, moving towards one of the scents he’d caught without thinking. Garazeb accompanied him automatically, his limp a little more pronounced than it was before their trek across the base, but he didn’t seem to mind his sudden distraction. When he reached one of the potted plants, Alexsandr released him before leaning in close enough to feel its petals brushing against his beard and inhaling deeply, a sigh of longing escaping him.

It smelled wonderful.

A wistful smile curled his lips.

Alexsandr wished he could see the colours. He wished he could see the green of its leaves and the hue of its petals, and the delicate anthers at the heart of its blossoms. Carefully, he reached out and brushed gentle fingertips along the petals, feeling their softness against his skin.

His smile deepened.

Unlike other planets, Coruscant wasn’t known for having a broad selection of wild flora and fauna to admire. His homeworld had nothing so pleasant — except for private gardens in the Federal District and the odd abandoned tooka roaming the lower levels, gobbling up rodents and small urban birds, each of them a small ecological disaster. It was one of the reasons he’d been so eager to graduate from the Academy, knowing he’d be sent elsewhere. He’d longed to put his past behind him. He’d longed to travel and see other planets, to experience their natural environments in person and not from a chair in front of the holonet.

Before it all went wrong, Alexsandr had been eager to visit Onderon. With all the wonder of a small boy, he’d been eager to explore that jungle world. The serious nature of the mission hadn’t dampened his excitement in the least. Until it all blew up in his face.

His smile faded.

Alexsandr drew away, ignoring the familiar urge to rub at his old scars. Rubbing them wouldn’t erase them or make the memories disappear. It would just draw peoples’ attention to what was hidden beneath his tunic. The thought discomfited him immensely; Alexsandr wrapped his arms around himself to ward off the discomfort as a door slid open in the distance and footsteps approached.

“Agent Kallus,” an unfamiliar voice greeted primly, sending another wave of discomfort through him at the sound of his surname once again. The voice was feminine and somewhat mechanised. It reminded him of a Jedi Master he’d met during his studies at the Royal Academy, an old Kel Dor named Plo Koon. Alexsandr assumed the person speaking was another of his species, her antiox mask deepening her natural vocal tones. “Welcome to Yavin Four. I’m Doctor Dram Huzo, the chief medical officer on the base. Have a seat.”

Alexsandr dipped his head in acknowledgement before turning, reaching out for Garazeb, who captured his hand without hesitation and tugged him over to one of the beds. He settled carefully, keeping his feet planted on the floor, keeping himself orientated.

“Captain Orrelios sent a transmission ahead and informed me about some injuries, but he didn’t know the full extent of the damage. So, I’d like to give a full examination to find out what we’re dealing with here.” Doctor Huzo came closer, her voice gentling. She set something beside him on the bed. “How can I make this more bearable, Agent Kallus?”

“You can stop calling me that. Please.”

“Of course,” Doctor Huzo answered. She paused before asking, a mild note of hesitance in her voice, “Would Alexsandr be an acceptable alternative?”

“For now,” Alexsandr answered tightly, wanting nothing more than to just get the examination over with. He didn’t want to be poked and prodded. He didn’t want her to see his scars, though he knew it would be inevitable. He wanted to speak to the quartermaster, to find out where he was supposed to go, where he’d be sleeping. Who he’d be sharing with. Alexsandr couldn’t imagine he’d have a room to himself when the rebels had such little funding, after all. “Until I decide on something more preferable.”

“Then I’ll make a note that it might change. Now, are there allergies I need to be aware of?”

“None that I know of.”

“Wonderful. Okay,” Doctor Huzo said brightly, “let’s get started then.”

Alexsandr hesitated before reaching upwards and undoing the knot securing his blindfold in place, mindful of his hair. He wound his hands around the fabric, his knuckles whitening as another wave of discomfort washed through him. Alexsandr couldn’t help tensing, waiting for the familiar reaction to his blindness.

Fortunately, Doctor Huzo didn’t make a sound when she saw his face. Nor did she stare. She looked him over, but there was a sense of clinical detachment that he appreciated as she eased back one eyelid with gentle fingers and then the other, peering into the hidden depths.

“I’m surprised the tear ducts are intact.”

“The Death Troopers were meticulous in their cruelty,” Alexsandr answered quietly, stifling a shudder at the memory, “and were well-equipped. Clearly, it was something Thrawn planned in advance.” 

Garazeb growled somewhere behind him.

“Looks like the sockets healed up well. We could look into sourcing some implants.”

“No,” Alexsandr snapped abruptly, his jaw clenching as an unbidden image of mechanical limbs and murderous, gold eyes flashed through his mind. He couldn’t help recoiling in horror as he remembered the old news broadcasts, the brief glimpses of General Grievous and his horrific upgrades. General Grievous had been more machine than a man when he’d been vanquished at last. Alexsandr didn’t want that to happen to him. “I was little more than a machine for the Empire. I won’t become one for the rebellion. I’ll survive as I am. I don’t need upgrades or implants or whatever else might be suggested.”

“I value consent above all else, Alexsandr,” Doctor Huzo said quietly, but firmly, and Alexsandr could tell he’d offended her with his response. “You’re in charge of what happens here. We are not the Empire or the Separatists of old. I promise nothing will ever be done without a valid form of consent.”

“Good.” Alexsandr nodded but he didn’t relax in the slightest. He turned his head a fraction — as though he might look over his shoulder and see Garazeb waiting, watching, his continued presence an obvious offer of support during the proceedings. But he didn’t want him to be present for the next part. He didn’t want him to see the scars on his chest. It was bad enough that Doctor Huzo would see them without Garazeb seeing them as well. Given how protective the Lasat had been already, Alexsandr didn’t want to set him off. Returning his attention to Doctor Huzo, Alexsandr added quietly, “I’d like Garazeb to step outside before we continue.”

A surprised noise escaped the Lasat behind him.

But he didn’t argue.

Alexsandr bowed his head and waited until he could no longer hear his retreating footsteps before rising from the bed and setting his blindfold aside and unbuckling his belt. He set the belt aside and then reached for the hem of his tunic with shaking fingers, drawing it upwards in a stilted motion.

If his increasing agitation alarmed the doctor, she didn’t make it obvious.

Finally, Alexsandr set the tunic down and stood awkwardly, wanting nothing more than to cover his chest with his arms. But he didn’t. He focused on keeping his breathing even instead as Doctor Huzo said softly, “You poor thing. How old are these scars?”

“Over a decade.”

“You were little more than a boy,” Doctor Huzo replied with some surprise and no small amount of compassion. “Alexsandr, you must have been terrified. No one deserves to be treated like this. Not even an Imperial Agent.” 

Her compassion threatened to undo him entirely; it was more than he’d ever received from the Empire at the time. It was more than he’d ever received from his mentor, Colonel Yularen. The ISB and the Empire had been more concerned with the message from Saw Gerrera and his partisans than the impact the gruesome assault had on Alexsandr, the one forced to wear it on his skin.

His tear ducts heated.

Doctor Huzo didn’t dwell on the scars after that. She continued her examination of his torso, her hands gentle as she checked for broken bones or dislocations across the expanse of his shoulders and down his ribcage. The fact that she’d moved on allowed Alexsandr a moment to pull himself together, to swallow the growing lump in his throat and let the urge to sob fade away, to control the sharp shake of his hands. Doctor Huzo repeated the careful process down his back and arms before asking him to drop his leggings to let her continue downward.

Alexsandr did as requested and cupped his privates with both hands, mortified that he didn’t have underwear, but Doctor Huzo didn’t seem to give a shit about it. She was as detached as she’d been when inspecting his sockets. Alexsandr supposed it wasn’t the first time she’d seen a cock while performing her duties as chief medical officer and that it wouldn’t be the last time either, but that thought didn’t ease his embarrassment much.

“You seem to be favouring that leg,” Doctor Huzo said as she patted his bad knee.

“I broke the femur in a crash a while back. Garazeb can attest to that.” Alexsandr turned around and reached for his tunic quickly, slipping it on over his head despite the faint protests from his bruised and burning shoulders. He was less concerned about Doctor Huzo seeing his backside than he was about her seeing his privates. “But I couldn’t get it treated officially; I’d lied on the report I submitted. I don’t think it healed right. Too late to fix it now, of course.”

Doctor Huzo hummed.

“I’ve broken a lot of other bones since then.” Alexsandr grimaced at the phrasing as he pulled his leggings back up, tucking himself inside with care. Finally, he buckled the belt around his waist before turning back around to face Doctor Huzo. “Or had them broken at least. A scan wouldn’t go amiss.”

Doctor Huzo snorted and answered mildly, “I do know how to do my job, Alexsandr.”

“Right. Of course, Doctor. I apologise.”

“You needn’t apologise. I’m not offended.” Alexsandr could almost hear the dismissive wave of her hand. He heard her rummaging through whatever she’d set down on the bed. Presumably, it was a medical bag or briefcase, but he didn’t know for sure. “We’ll save the scan for later. Right now, I want to focus on taking some blood samples. It will help me determine a nutrition plan to help gain that weight back.”

Alexsandr rolled up his sleeve automatically; he’d had his fair share of bloods taken over the course of his career with the ISB. Usually, it was to make sure he hadn’t been drugged or dosed with nanobots after a gruelling mission. He was less familiar with having his blood tested for deficiencies, but he doubted there was a huge difference in procedure. Alexsandr waited patiently, sitting still as she wrapped an elasticated strap around his arm and secured it comfortably, just above his elbow. 

A few moments passed before Doctor Huzo tapped the area with a gentle fingertip and hummed in satisfaction before removing the strap and rubbing his skin with a mild antiseptic. She then inserted a needle carefully, but expertly, beginning the familiar process of drawing blood. She took a few small phials before removing the needle with equal care, pressing a ball of cotton down over the injection point.

Alexsandr took over when prompted and he listened to Doctor Huzo pottering about the medbay, muttering to herself. Five minutes or so passed before she returned and said somewhat apologetically, “The analysis will take a while, I’m afraid. The equipment we’ve got is a little outdated for the moment. Hopefully, we’ll get an upgrade soon. But how about we take care of that scan now, eh?” 

Carefully, Alexsandr shifted to lie down on the bed and dropped the ball of cotton onto the bed beside him. He wouldn’t need it now; his arm was no longer giving that low, almost unnoticeable pulse that indicated a bleed. Reclining left him a little dizzy, but Alexsandr wasn’t surprised in the least. Not when taking his current condition and the phials of blood drawn into consideration.

Doctor Huzo was slow and methodical in her scanning, moving the device down the length of one arm and then the other, observing the device and humming to herself all the while. It was soothing, her humming, and Alexsandr couldn’t help relaxing, his frame mellowing out with each moment that passed. She scanned his torso next and then his legs before stating, “I can tell a bone-knitter was used to heal most of these breaks. It left a number of weaknesses. Some of these areas are close to cracking. You’ll need a calcium-rich diet or supplements to help repair and strengthen the bones.”

Alexsandr nodded in acknowledgement and understanding. It was nothing he hadn’t expected himself. He’d spent seven months minimising his food consumption and enduring poisonings in the same sweep. It made sense that his bones would suffer as a result.

“As for the break we discussed earlier, you’re correct: it didn’t heal right. But considering the circumstances, you did well. The bone in that area is thicker and much healthier than the spots where the bone-knitter was used. The main issue with that old break was that it healed crookedly, and that’s causing the discomfort. I do think we could break it again and heal it properly, but it might be best to wait a while. Your current condition would just hinder the healing process. We can discuss it at a later date.” 

Slowly, and carefully, Alexsandr braced himself against the bed and sat up. He swung his legs over the edge and pressed his feet against the floor, grounding himself again. Automatically, he searched for the blindfold Garazeb had given him earlier and wound it around his hands as he had before. There wasn’t much point in securing it back into place when the examination wasn’t finished.

Doctor Huzo dragged a chair closer to the bed and sat down heavily, her clothes rustling for a moment or so. She scribbled something, her stylus scratching across flimsi audibly, and Alexsandr had a moment to be surprised that the Rebel Alliance still used flimsi before Doctor Huzo said gently, “Tell me about the weight loss.” 

Alexsandr explained what happened. How he’d endured regular poisonings. How he’d been forced to be careful with his meals and forced to curtail his exercise regime. How he’d spent half his time vomiting into the toilet and the other half sprawled on the floor, hot and feverish as his stomach cramped and cramped and cramped with nothing left to purge. Alexsandr didn’t hedge around what he’d experienced while imprisoned on Lothal. 

Hedging wouldn’t help him recover.

“I see.” Doctor Huzo paused in her scribbling. Alexsandr could feel her gaze boring holes into his head as she studied him. “Well. Our dental technician is off today, but I’ll have him schedule an appointment as soon as possible. We’ll need to have a look at those teeth after all that vomiting. We’ll also need to have a look at that stomach and oesophagus...but our deep-tissue scanner is being repaired. That will have to wait.”

“You need new equipment.”

“Don’t I know it.” Alexsandr could almost hear Doctor Huzo shaking her head. He heard her sigh and fiddle with the flimsi in her grasp, the pages rustling beneath her fingers. “But we’ll make do for now. We don’t have a choice.”

“I would locate and steal all the equipment and supplies required if I could.” Alexsandr dipped his head toward her, a bitter smile curling his lips. “Had I known sooner, I’d have ensured the _Ghost_ crew received information about suitable places to raid.”

“The sentiment is appreciated.” Doctor Huzo chuckled to herself. “And who knows? You might still have a chance to help us later. It wouldn’t be the first time a blind man robbed the Empire blind and lived to tell the tale.”

“Jarrus is a Jedi. His situation is rather different.”

Alexsandr made no mention of his own connection to the Force, his own spark sealed behind that door inside him. He wanted to keep that to himself for as long as possible, though he knew the spread of that information would be inevitable. Most likely, the Generals and the rogue Senators involved in the rebellion were aware already; that kind of information was important. It wouldn’t surprise him to learn that Garazeb had informed them ahead of their arrival at the base.

Just like he’d informed Doctor Huzo about his current condition.

Doctor Huzo hummed in reply, but said nothing. She continued her scribbling for a moment and then set her notes aside as a device beeped in the distance. She rose from her chair and moved away, her steps quick. She hummed again before returning, calling out for Garazeb as she did so.

Garazeb returned as soon as she called him.

Hearing that limping gait was an immediate comfort and Alexsandr couldn’t help turning his head toward him. His grip tightened around the blindfold in his hands. A familiar warmth bloomed behind his sternum when Garazeb stopped beside him and rested a large hand on his shoulder, squeezing a fraction in support. It made pain flare across his bruises, but Alexsandr didn’t care.

“Captain Orrelios,” Doctor Huzo said with a mild note of seriousness in her voice, “I don’t see a reason to keep Alexsandr here overnight. Take him to the quartermaster and get him settled as soon as possible.”

“Sure. We were goin’ to head there next anyway, Doc.”

“Good. Alexsandr,” Doctor Huzo added gently, the seriousness easing, “I understand there might be an urge to do some exploring, to luxuriate in this newfound freedom. You should take it easy, however, as a lot of damage has been done. It will take weeks to recover and longer still to acclimatise to the heat here. If you wish to explore the base, I’d suggest late evening. It’ll be cooler then.”

“Of course.”

“I’m going to build a nutrition plan and send it over to Captain Orrelios’ datapad tonight. For the time being, I’d recommend something light for supper — some fruit and a broth perhaps. The mess has one available today, I think.”

Alexsandr dipped his head in acknowledgement. He hadn’t planned to eat something heavy; he wasn’t that much of a fool. He knew his stomach wouldn’t be able to handle it. Not after months of vomiting and virtual starvation.

“Finally, take this.” Doctor Huzo pressed a large jar into his hands. It was cool to the touch and pleasant after the humid heat from outside. “It’ll cool that skin right down. Use it morning and evening for the next week until the burns fade. Then continue to use it as needed. Return to me when it runs out.”

“Doctor, I…” Alexsandr hesitated as the words stuck in his throat. He wasn’t sure how to continue, how to express his gratitude in a manner that didn’t sound trite. His hands tightened around the jar she’d given him. “I’m so…”

“Think nothing of it. Please.” Doctor Huzo rested a hand on his other shoulder and said seriously, “Alexsandr, your intel helped a niece of mine to escape the Inquisitors and I will never forget that. Whatever I can do to help, I’ll do it. It’s the least I can do to return the favour.”

Something burst inside his chest. 

“I’m relieved to hear that. That it helped someone.” His voice grew thicker with each word that escaped him. Alexsandr struggled to keep talking, to express his sentiments. “All I wanted was to help people. Is she well? Your niece?”

“Very,” Doctor Huzo said kindly, squeezing his shoulder a fraction. Her voice grew warm. “She’s here on the base. She helps out in the mess from time to time. You might catch her at some point.”

“I’d like that.”

Alexsandr bowed his head in respect and exchanged farewells with Doctor Huzo before turning to Garazeb, asking him to hold the jar for a moment. Thankfully, Garazeb did so without hesitation. Alexsandr then secured the blindfold in place, once again mindful of his hair, and deflated with a sigh.

It was a relief to have the blindfold in place again.

Together, the pair of them left the medbay, the Lasat offering his arm once again.

Alexsandr didn’t hesitate to accept it.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> I'm so glad y'all are enjoying this fic so much! It makes me so happy!

“If possible, I’d prefer to share with Garazeb or with other defectors,” Alexsandr said to the quartermaster quietly, the fingers of his free hand curling around the cuff of his sleeve again. “I know there’ll be rebels that I’ve hurt in the past here and I’d rather not make them more uncomfortable than I am already, Sir.”

A wild flailing and a noise of surprise told him the quartermaster had almost fallen out of his chair. Briefly, Alexsandr thought it was due to his concern for his fellow rebels and their feelings about his presence, given his past as an Imperial Agent. Until the quartermaster opened his mouth and asked suddenly, with a faint hiss drawing out his words, “You _want_ to share with Captain Orrelios? No one has ever made that request before. Quite the opposite. Most people think he smells something awful.”

“Then I’ll share with him and no one else,” Alexsandr snapped. A vein pulsed in his forehead as his face tensed sharply, anger surging through him. He almost ripped through the sleeve of his tunic as he thought of Garazeb waiting outside, no doubt having heard the remark through the door with those sensitive ears. Imagining the droop of those ears, Alexsandr couldn’t stop himself from adding, “There is nothing wrong with Garazeb or how he smells. For a group opposed to the Imperial regime, there seems to be a surprising amount of intolerance here.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the quartermaster said quickly, a placating note in his voice. Alexsandr could almost imagine his raised hands quelling the air, doing their best to calm him down without touching him or moving from behind his desk. “I was just surprised. I don’t agree with the other rebels either; I’m a Trandoshan. His scent reminds me of home.” 

Mollified slightly, Alexsandr released a small breath before nodding, the tension in his face easing a little.

“I’ll arrange for another bunk to be set up in Orrelios’ quarters.” The light click of claws suggested the quartermaster was tapping at his datapad. “I’ll also take some measurements and see if I can scrounge up some more clothes. Ones that fit better. Might get ‘em just a size bigger, so you’ll have room to grow. That alright?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Alright. I’m coming around now.” The wheels of his chair squeaking, the quartermaster rose from his chair and came around from behind his desk. He began taking his measurements, his claws catching a little on his clothes as he did so. Alexsandr held himself carefully, remaining still until directed to move his limbs. A few minutes later, the quartermaster announced cheerfully, “You’re all set. I’ll see what I can find.”

Alexsandr muttered his thanks and turned on his heel. He strode purposefully, his hand stretched out ahead of him to find the door. As soon as he’d stepped outside, a rough hand seized his shoulder, gripping just a fraction too tight.

“Ya didn’t have to do that for me.”

“Yes, I did.” Alexsandr tipped his head back a fraction. He could feel Garazeb staring and he wished he could see that stare, see the light shining in that gaze. He wished he could see the position of his ears. His lips thinned with bitterness. “I can’t stand the idea that rebels think like that. Rebels are supposed to be better than the Empire.”

“People can’t help havin’ sensitive noses.”

“You can’t help having that scent either, Garazeb.”

“I know that.” Garazeb huffed in irritation. His grip gentled a fraction and his large thumb grazed against his bare skin. “I just don’t want fights startin’ over me. Not a great look for the head of security, ya know.”

“I’m not going to stand there and listen to people talk shit —”

“Just be careful. That’s all I’m askin’.” Garazeb stepped closer and Alexsandr could feel the Lasat looming over him as he spoke. It made his stomach twist with something unnameable. His pulse quickened. His stomach twisted harder when that gruff voice softened. “What if it hadn’t been a Trandoshan in there? What if it was someone else? Someone the Empire hurt? Or worse, someone _you’d_ hurt?”

“Then I’d still snap at them and damn the consequences. I can take a punch.”

“Ya don’t have to,” Garazeb growled sharply, his grip tightening again. He pushed Alexsandr firmly, but gently, pressing him against the wall and trapping him against the ancient stone. It was cool to the touch and so rough against his fingertips. “We risked our lives to stop people from hurtin’ ya. I don’t want to see it happenin’ here.”

“Your concern is noted...and appreciated.” Alexsandr bowed his head slightly, underscoring his sincerity, while also avoiding the weighted stare resting on him. His fingers worried at the cuff of his sleeve as he realised Garazeb still hadn’t stepped away, still lingered close enough to feel that warm breath ghosting across his face. “I’ll do what I can to avoid a fight. But I won’t make promises I might not be able to keep.”

“Good.” Finally, Garazeb stepped away, and Alexsandr almost stepped after him to follow his warmth before catching himself. “Ya want to head to the mess hall? I feel like I could eat a whole bantha right now.”

Alexsandr couldn’t help snorting, but nodded his acquiescence.

Garazeb captured his wrist and tucked his hand around his elbow — just as he had earlier. The pair of them were soon on their way, the Lasat limping and Alexsandr tripping over an uneven stone now and then. But Garazeb never let Alexsandr lose his balance for long and never let him fall. Garazeb remained a constant presence at his side, taking his muttered obscenities in stride and with an air of mild amusement. 

It made being trapped in the void almost bearable. 

The mess hall was loud and filled with people. Fortunately, it was also filled with enough distraction that no one seemed to notice their entrance. Grateful for the noise and the obvious bustling, Alexsandr let Garazeb lead him through the mess hall to find a table.

“Take a seat. Rest up.” Garazeb gave his shoulder a light squeeze once Alexsandr found the back of one of the chairs with his hand. “I’ll go and grab us some grub. Ya want any fruit in particular?”

“Jogan. Please.”

“Sure. I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” Alexsandr said quietly, his voice far more confident than he felt as that limping gait left him within moments, leaving him adrift in a sea of people he couldn’t see. People he wouldn’t be able to recognise until too late, if someone approached him. His nerves continued to climb higher with each moment that passed after he settled in his chair. His ears listening out for that familiar limp, Alexsandr ran his fingers over the jar in front of him in an attempt to distract himself from the worries churning inside him.

_You’re shaking_ , said that voice at the back of his mind. 

_I know_ , Alexsandr almost said aloud before he caught himself. His hand tightened around the jar. A spasm ran up through the tendons in his wrist. Being seen talking to himself wouldn’t look good — not when Garazeb had left him alone at the table. People would assume that he’d lost his mind.

Or worse: some people might think he was communicating with someone, passing messages while Garazeb was distracted. While most people in the mess hall were distracted with food and conversation. 

Alexsandr couldn’t afford to draw that kind of attention to himself.

Honestly, Alexsandr wasn’t even surprised that he’d almost responded aloud. He’d grown so accustomed to muttering to himself within the lonely, quiet confines of his cell whenever that voice made itself known. It would be a difficult habit to break in the coming weeks. Alexsandr just hoped Garazeb wouldn’t think less of him if he happened to catch him muttering to himself in the future.

Doing his best to ignore that voice, he focused his attention on the conversations floating around him. He caught a few snippets of humorous anecdotes and some sombre discussions that stabbed through him like a knife. It seemed the mess hall wasn’t like an Imperial mess; it wasn’t just for getting sustenance, but for coming together and sharing life and love, grief and loss, and warm humour to keep their fears contained.

Really, it was the pulsing heart of the base. 

And Alexsandr was a stranger trapped outside, wishing he could be a part of it and knowing he couldn’t. Not when he’d caused so much hurt. He didn’t even deserve to be within a few feet of that beating heart. He wasn’t like the pilots he’d helped escape from the Empire — he was too old and far too late, hands still stained with so much blood.

“Stop that.”

Alexsandr stifled a gasp of surprise before tilting his head back as he felt Garazeb looming over him once again. He felt that large hand grip the back of his chair and heard metal creaking beneath his strength. Alarmed that he hadn’t heard Garazeb coming, or even setting their dishes down on the table, Alexsandr couldn’t help blurting, “Stop what?” 

“Thinkin’ stupid thoughts,” Garazeb groused before retreating, his limp even more pronounced than before. He moved around the table, settling himself into his chair with a loud sigh. “Ya look prepared to run out of here and never come back.”

Alexsandr said nothing, his jaw tensing. 

“You’re a rebel. Ya belong here. End of story,” Garazeb said irritably, his claws clicking against the tabletop in a show of frustration. “Ya made the right choice in the end. Ya started helpin’ people. I’ve more right to be pissed off than any, and even I can see a difference between the man ya were and the man ya are now.”

“The man I am now is blind. Rather hard to miss such an obvious difference.”

“Karabast! You’re insufferable.”

_I know,_ Alexsandr almost said. He bowed his head instead and searched for the meal Garazeb brought to him with careful hands. The spoon skittered a short distance across the table when he knocked against it with the side of his hand. He found the bowl of broth a moment or so later and pulled it closer carefully, a small smile curling his lips despite the thoughts and worries still churning inside him. “Smells good.”

“Sure does. I ended up gettin’ some for me too.”

“On top of the bantha?”

“Shut up. Ya know that’s just an expression.”

“I don’t know,” Alexsandr said as his smile deepened a fraction. His churning thoughts faded somewhat. He plucked his spoon from the table and dipped it into the bowl carefully, scooping a small sip before adding, “You were staring at those bonzami quite hard on that moon. You weren’t hankering for a snack?”

Garazeb surprised him with a sudden huff of startled laughter and Alexsandr could almost imagine how it affected his abdomen. How it would shift with the sudden push and pull of that laugh. It sounded warm and happy, as though Garazeb was smiling, and the thought made warmth bloom behind his sternum.

Alexsandr sipped his spoonful of broth carefully, distracting himself from the sudden urge to reach out and touch — to feel the curve of those lips, to feel the blossom of his cheek. To see without seeing, as it were. It was a ridiculous urge. Pointless. It wasn’t as though Garazeb would ever allow such familiarity, even after such a stressful reunion in the complex on Lothal.

“Ya know, you’re funnier than I thought.”

“Thanks,” Alexsandr said dryly, lowering his spoon again.

“I mean it. Ya never showed this side to me before.”

“Yes. Well.” Alexsandr shifted awkwardly, feeling his face grow hot with his discomfort. He was glad his beard concealed most of it. He focused on the bowl in front of him rather than the Lasat watching him. “We haven’t spent a lot of time together — outside of our attempts to kill each other. It isn’t as though we’re friends.”

“We could be.” Garazeb seemed to focus on his own broth then. Alexsandr heard his spoon scrape against the bowl several times before the Lasat continued speaking, his voice hesitant and unsure. “If we’ll be sharin’ quarters, becomin’ friends seems inevitable. I don’t much care for the idea of sharin’ a room with a brick wall. Lasats are a social people.”

“I’ll endeavour not to be a brick wall then.” Alexsandr couldn’t stop a small huff of amusement from escaping him. “But I will admit that I’m...out of practice. I haven’t had someone I could consider a friend in a long time. And I... I arrested the one I did have.”

Garazeb snorted without warning, choking on his broth. 

Alexsandr froze, unsure what to do. His hand strained around his spoon as a frisson of fear opened up inside him. He was torn between scrambling over the table to reach the Lasat and shouting for help, drawing all the attention of the mess hall toward their little table. 

A loud thumping sound came and then Garazeb gasped sharply, and relief shot through Alexsandr in an instant.

“Karabast. You’re goin’ to be the death of me one day,” Garazeb muttered under his breath and an awkward chuckle escaped him then. “And just so we’re clear: I’m not even fuckin’ surprised that arrestin’ a friend was on the agenda of such an infamous Imperial Agent. Just didn’t expect it to be said out loud.”

“He deserved it.”

“I’m sure,” Garazeb scoffed. “What did he do? Rob from the Empire?”

“Yes...to enrich himself.” Alexsandr directed a sharp expression at him. The urge to throw the spoon at his face was almost overwhelming, but he managed to squash the urge with some effort. Alexsandr continued snidely, “Jovan wasn’t like the Spectres. He didn’t steal to help other people or a cause. He stole to line his own pockets. He stole to build power and influence, to rise higher than the rank he had. It was self-serving and despicable.”

“Jovan.” Garazeb huffed. “Sounds like a snob.”

“He was. He was from the Core, after all.” Alexsandr dipped his head and focused that sharp expression on his bowl instead. “We’re all snobs at one point or another, even when we aren’t born with silver spoons in our mouths. The air on Coruscant was full of snobbery; you couldn’t help breathing it in.”

Silence fell between them.

Alexsandr seethed quietly, eating his broth in an attempt to distract himself from the memories rising to the surface. He didn’t want to think about his time on the streets, hugging the shadows to avoid the disdainful glances from those who still had their homes, families, and wealth. He didn’t want to think about Rashta Hal — the old Togruta who’d taken him off the streets, given him a job in his repair shop, and paved the path straight into his career as a cadet and more.

“I’m sorry,” Garazeb said eventually, breaking the silence. He heaved a sigh and the gust of it carried straight across the table, bringing hints of onion and garlic with it. Alexsandr wrinkled his nose even as Garazeb added awkwardly, “Didn’t mean to offend ya.”

“I’m not offended. I just don’t like thinking about Coruscant.”

“Ya don’t like thinkin’ about home?”

“People who don’t know me,” Alexsandr said quietly, his frame tensing, and his hands beginning to shake noticeably, “and most people _don’t_ know me — assume that I lived a life without hardship. I have the accent associated with the elite and I’m educated. I’ve made connections that a lot of people would kill or spread their legs for. But that doesn’t mean living on Coruscant wasn’t difficult. Becoming a cadet was a terrible mistake, and I regret it daily, but it got me off that rock. I might never have had the opportunity, otherwise.”

Garazeb said nothing for several moments, but the weight of his gaze was like duracrete. His large hand closed the distance between them then and captured one of his, putting a stop to his tremors with gentle force. His voice softened before he said quietly, “We don’t have to talk about it. Whatever events happened there; I can tell it still hurts to think about. I know what that feels like.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

Alexsandr almost said more before he bit the words back and swallowed them. He wasn’t prepared to admit that he wasn’t ready, that there were a lot of things he needed to unpack before he could consider discussing them. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to talk about some things — about his mother, his sister, or even Rashta Hal. Instead of talking, Alexsandr bowed his head and focused on finishing the last dregs of his broth before searching for the jogan fruit he’d asked for.

“Want some?”

“Nah. Keep it. Ya need the nutrients.”

“Alright.”

Alexsandr shrugged and took a careful bite, all too aware of how much juice one jogan fruit could hold. The soft flavour of its juices was an immediate balm to his frazzled nerves and he couldn’t help sighing, holding the fruit close to his face as he chewed.

Each careful bite reminded him more and more of his mother — of the hot afternoons when she’d make a fruit salad to cool him down. When she’d chuckle in fondness before using her handkerchief to catch the juices dripping down his chin. When she’d gather him close and tickle him until he squealed and giggled in her arms, squirming, doing his best to escape.

A wistful smile curled his lips.

When Alexsandr was enveloped in her arms, he’d known he was loved. He’d felt it whenever he’d reached out with his spark and connected with her, mingling their circuits. He’d never felt as loved since. Not even when he’d found a friend in Jovan during his studies or when he’d found himself growing close to his first squad against his will. 

His smile dimmed.

His fond memories soon morphed into a wave of grief and a weariness that sank deep into his bones without an ounce of warning. It made his face feel long, almost haggard. It bowed his back and hunched his shoulders. It brought the shake back to his hands, though it seemed less noticeable than before. 

Alexsandr finished his jogan fruit in silence before asking, quiet and unsure, “Can we go to our quarters once we’ve tidied up? I know the bunk won’t be ready, but I think I need some rest. I’m rather tired.”

“Sure, Sasha. That’s no problem.” His voice was soft when Garazeb spoke — as though he could sense the turbulent emotions dragging Alexsandr down into their depths. The Lasat heaved himself out of his chair with a grunt of effort and batted his hands when Alexsandr tried to help him gather their used ware. “Let me take care of that. _You_ concentrate on keepin’ upright until we get to our quarters. I’ll be right back.”

Alexsandr subsided with little more than a token protest. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he had the strength or presence of mind to argue over the dishes at the moment. He wasn’t even sure he could make it to their quarters, wherever it was located. He just wanted to crawl into the nearest bunk and sleep curled up under a warm blanket. For now, Alexsandr concentrated on standing and gripping the back of his chair, on keeping himself as alert as possible. 

Garazeb didn’t take as long to return the second time.

The trek to their quarters was long, longer than the trek to see Doctor Huzo had been. Or that was how it seemed to Alexsandr, who couldn’t help feeling as though he were holding Garazeb back from moving at a more comfortable pace. Between his blindness, and his fatigue, he knew he didn’t have a lot to contribute to the effort it took to reach their quarters. With each step, he grew wearier, and Garazeb took more of his weight.

Alexsandr sank down on the available bunk when he and Garazeb reached it at last and kicked off his boots with a grunt of effort. He almost flopped down onto the pillow, his frame loose and limp, once he’d unbuckled his belt and let it slide to the floor. Already, he could feel himself starting to nod off and he hadn’t even managed to pull the blanket up.

“Rest up, alright?” Garazeb was the one that tugged the blanket up, resting the edge near his shoulders. He patted him with a gentle hand before starting to retreat. “Take as much time as ya need. Ya deserve it. I’ll be back in a while to check on ya.”

Without thinking, pure instinct taking over, Alexsandr reached out and caught his wrist.

“What is it?”

“Don’t go,” Alexsandr whispered. A soft tremor punctuated the words as he spoke. “Don’t leave me alone in the dark. Please.”

* * *

Zeb stared down at Kallus, an invisible knife twisting in his gut as the request sent his mind straight back to that night on that moon. Their moon. To the comment he’d made about Kallus being afraid of the dark. Suddenly, the comment was no longer funny, but a jagged blade that haunted him as his gaze shifted to the wrapping from his bo-rifle — the blindfold Kallus needed to stop people from staring.

His hands curled into fists. 

A whine caught in his throat before it could escape.

“Okay,” Zeb said finally, a dozen different thoughts and sentiments churning inside him. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck as his ears twitched before unbuckling the belt around his own waist and setting it aside. He’d removed his weapons belt already, having returned it to the drawer beneath his bunk on the _Ghost_.

Lastly, Zeb unclipped his bo-rifle from the back of his battlesuit. He set it down with care, not too far from the bunk. And then he climbed in beside Kallus, using his own strength to help him shift over and make room for him.

Of course, the bunk wasn’t huge.

The bunk just about fit him when Zeb was alone. It took some careful manoeuvring to find a comfortable position that allowed them both to relax into the available space. Unfortunately, it meant Kallus was wrapped around him — almost like a lover, and Zeb wasn’t sure how to handle that thought.

Not after what he’d seen through his connection with the Ashla.

Straggly, uneven red hair tickled his chin as Kallus snuggled closer sleepily, his too-thin frame relaxing around a sigh as he nodded off within moments of getting comfortable. His fingers curled around a loose fistful of his battlesuit. One of the tails from the blindfold brushed over a bare shoulder, stark against his bruises.

Seeing them again made a knot of hot anger form in his stomach. 

Zeb couldn’t help the instinctive curl of an arm around Kallus, the protective urge to pull him closer. The man curled up around him wasn’t quite the same man he’d once fought or even the man he’d once huddled with on that frozen moon. Not in looks and not in mannerisms. His imprisonment had changed him despite that lingering spark of defiance that made an appearance outside the quartermaster’s office. Of course, it had. Zeb shuddered to think about what might have happened to Kallus during those long, lonely, seven months. 

But whatever had happened...and however he’d changed...Zeb would be there for him.

Really, it was his fault that Kallus wound up in that mess in the first place. If he hadn’t pushed him to start thinking, to start digging and asking questions, Kallus would never have turned coat and he’d never have ended up in the cruel hands of Grand Admiral Thrawn.

A growl rumbled in his chest at the thought of that blue bastard.

But he squashed it before it could escape. He didn’t want to disturb Kallus, not when the man would need all the rest and healing he could get in the weeks to come. It would be a difficult journey, Zeb knew, but he didn’t doubt that Kallus would overcome what happened to him in time. 

Kallus was the Warrior, even if he didn’t know it.

Overcoming obstacles was part of the job description.

Zeb gazed down at Kallus, at the head that rose and fell with his chest. He couldn’t help reaching out and brushing a lock of that straggly, uneven hair back from his forehead. He tucked it behind his ear and then stilled as Kallus snuffled quietly, shuffling forward. Those loose fingers tightened a fraction around his battlesuit — as though afraid Zeb might disappear.

It wasn’t the first time Zeb and Kallus had been in such close quarters. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen the man injured or incapacitated or in need of assistance. It wasn’t even the first time the pair of them had slept beside each other.

But this was something different.

There was something vulnerable in the press of Kallus’ too-thin body, and there was a softness in the curl of his fingers. There was even an unexpected softness in the curl of his own arm around Kallus. It suggested a sentiment that he wasn’t prepared to examine.

Not now.

Perhaps never.

Zeb gazed down at the man for several moments more before sighing and settling his head against the pillow. He couldn’t help relaxing, the curve of his arm gentling around Kallus even further. He stared up at the ceiling and just listened to those quiet breaths filtering through the material of his battlesuit. It was soothing, really, listening to Kallus breathe in the solitude of their quarters.

It reminded him of that night spent huddling, strong limbs pressed close to his side, and Kallus’ head dipping to rest against his shoulder. Sleeping hadn’t been their intention. But between the cold around them and poor lighting, and that press of warmth between their bodies, sleeping was inevitable.

Zeb was just glad it hadn’t been the last time either of them fell asleep. He didn’t want to imagine the grief the crew would have experienced that morning, if the _Ghost_ had arrived to find him dead in the snow, wrapped around one of their enemies in a failed attempt to survive. He didn’t want to imagine the funeral the crew would have held for him. Thinking about such things was pointless.

He and Kallus had survived.

That was all that mattered.

Zeb stroked the curve of Kallus’ arm with his thumb. He continued to mellow out beside him as one moment slipped into the next. Slowly, Zeb realised how tired he was, how difficult it was to remain alert as those even breaths continued to lull him. 

It wasn’t long until he drifted off. 

* * *

Thrawn woke to find himself in an unfamiliar room and the knowledge disoriented him for a short moment. He tensed and peered through the low lighting, noting the various medical equipment dotted around the room. He also noted the walls and floor, the ceiling and light fixtures. He studied the bed he rested on and came to a conclusion he didn’t like.

It wasn’t the medbay; Thrawn wasn’t even in the Imperial complex on Lothal.

The components were wrong.

His gaze narrowed.

Thrawn tried to sit up, but his arms were far weaker than he anticipated and couldn’t hold his weight for more than a moment. His muscles felt like water. It didn’t take long to realise he’d been drugged at some point. Slowly, Thrawn settled back against the pillows and continued to assess the situation at hand.

The last thing he remembered was the sudden whir of a lightsaber and a searing pain so vibrant that he couldn’t stop a scream from tearing up his throat. Thrawn couldn’t even remember hitting the floor. His lips thinned. As much as he hesitated to accept the possibility, the pain must have been too much for his mind to take.

He must have lost consciousness.

He’d been moved sometime after losing consciousness — that much was clear, though Thrawn wasn’t certain who’d have dared to issue such a command. It wasn’t his bridge officers. He’d chosen them with care and knew none of them would issue such a command without his explicit consent.

And it wasn’t Governor Pryce. She feared and respected his mind more than she hungered for power and status, for recognition.

That left him with three options: Colonel Yularen of the ISB, Governor Tarkin, and the Emperor himself. None of these options were ideal. He’d faced the displeasure of Tarkin and the Emperor already, having failed to crush the rebellion on Atollon and capture its leaders. A return of that displeasure wasn’t something he wished to endure. Nor did he wish to have the added weight of the ISB looking over his shoulder. It would make his job that much harder and that wasn’t even counting the injuries he’d sustained on Lothal. 

Thrawn didn’t need to look at his legs to know what happened. He didn’t need to see the dip in the blankets where his knees should have been. He remembered the pain. He’d never be able to forget such pain for as long as he lived. He’d experienced nothing like it before. His lashes fluttered against his cheeks as Thrawn drew in a steady, measured breath as a cold rage flooded through him. 

His hands curled into fists. 

But it wasn’t the amputation that angered him. No, that was something he could overcome in time. It wasn’t the first time a warrior was robbed of his legs and it wouldn’t be the last. His mind focused on the reason it happened instead.

His mind flashed back to that corridor, to the gaunt face of Agent Kallus. To the determination that crossed those once-handsome features as Agent Kallus forced himself to his feet despite his weakened state. To the hand that clawed at the air before an invisible force seized Thrawn and squeezed until he couldn’t breathe. 

A Jedi.

Agent Kallus was a Jedi.

And Thrawn had never known. He’d never even suspected. He’d known about Cal Kestis, of course, having studied the old archives in an attempt to learn more about the Force after that confusing, and almost alarming, altercation with the Bendu on Atollon. But there’d been no indication that such abilities were genetic. 

His jaw clenched.

Thrawn detested puzzles that thwarted him. He hadn’t thought there was such a thing — until Agent Kallus. Until the man revealed himself as a Jedi in that corridor, standing over that gaping Lasat. His frostbitten rage burned through him and Thrawn couldn’t help hissing, the sound loud and jarring in the low light. 

Agent Kallus wouldn’t thwart him again.

Thrawn would make sure of it.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what ye think! :D

_Alexsandr heaved himself up higher, the muscles in his arms straining, and sweat beading across his face. He pulled himself over the edge with one final grunt and sprawled across the cold rooftop for several moments, his chest heaving from the effort of climbing so high. He pushed a hand through his hair when he climbed to his feet at last and turned towards his destination: the edge facing the Jedi Temple. Tired and nervous, Alexsandr crossed to the far side of the rooftop and stood near the edge, half-concealed behind a chimney, the smell of soot and the lingering taste of old smoke in the air tickling his nose and causing his face to wrinkle for a moment or so._

_He curled a hand around the cold chimney, fingers digging in._

_Alexsandr looked down over the perimeter wall and felt his heart ache when he spotted familiar red hair. His vision blurred for a moment before he dashed his free hand across his face. He focused on Cal again and watched as his cousin sat in the temple gardens, giggling as butterflies landed on his nose and ears, tickling him with their little feet. Alexsandr couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Cal laughing._

_It seemed like a lifetime had passed since the Jedi had taken Cal away, taken him from his parents’ home when he was three. Little more than a baby, really._

_Alexsandr had been there that day, sitting on the floor with Cal and showing him how to see the sparks around him while his own father was at work. He’d shown him how people glowed beneath their skin. It wasn’t something that required words. It was something that he’d shown him through the touch of his fingers against his forehead and concentrating, focusing on showing him an image of Cal and Alexsandr breathing together, relaxing, opening up to the spark within._

_It wasn’t hard, connecting with Cal like that. It was instinctive. It came to him naturally, like breathing, like holding hands with his Mama or snuggling with Mila as she read to him before bed. Cal and Alexsandr were the same and it showed with each tingle of awareness whenever one or the other entered a room._

_Alexsandr could remember the awe shining in those green eyes, how round they seemed to grow as Cal stared down at his own hands in open wonder. And the blinding grin that followed when he looked up at Alexsandr, exclaiming excitedly, “I can see it! Sasha, I can see it!”_

_And Alexsandr had been about to congratulate him when someone knocked on the distant front door. All the adults in the room had paused abruptly, surprised. No one had been expecting guests. Alexsandr had muted his spark with some effort and had shuffled closer to Cal automatically, the urge to wrap him up in his arms almost overwhelming, and the urge grew when his uncle opened the front door and revealed a Jedi._

_It wasn’t Jaro, the one who’d come to see Alexsandr, the one who’d fled in unexpected fear._

_It was someone else. It was someone tall and dark and handsome, his simple robes highlighting the strength of his shoulders. His bald head had glowed in the afternoon sun shining through the doorway, and a faint smile had softened severe features._

_“I thought we’d have more time,” his uncle had sighed. He’d glanced over his shoulder, gaze sad and resigned. His frame had deflated and he’d stepped back from the door, allowing the Jedi to step across the threshold. “But I suppose it was inevitable.”_

_“I’m afraid so,” the Jedi had answered kindly, his hands folded in front of him. “His gifts are getting stronger. Really, it would be dangerous to leave his connection to the Force go unchecked for much longer. He needs training.”_

_Alexsandr had felt his stomach twist immediately, and it twisted even now as he gazed down over the perimeter wall. His heart panged as he remembered the fearful sobs that escaped Cal that day, the desperate clutch of his smaller hands, and the quiet tears of his aunt and uncle as both of them tried their best to soothe Cal one last time. His free hand curled into a fist as he remembered the angry, bitter resentment that coursed through his own chest that day, watching the Jedi take his cousin from the house. He’d remembered how Jaro had seen his own gifts and left him to deal with them alone._

_In another lifetime, Cal and Alexsandr might have lived and trained together in the Jedi Temple._

_But it wasn’t to be._

_The Jedi Order didn’t take people like him._

_Alexsandr shuffled closer to the edge and sat down carefully, still holding on to the chimney, all too aware that it was a long drop to the bottom. He continued to watch Cal below, watched the butterflies abandon Cal as a stooped green Jedi hobbled over to him with a cane. He couldn’t hear them speak. But he saw how Cal relaxed around the Jedi Master, open and trusting, and saw him smile. He watched them interact for some time...until the green being paused and turned curiously, looking right at the spot where Alexsandr sat._

_Alexsandr gasped and scrambled away, fear climbing into his chest and threatening to rip his heart to ribbons. He’d just dropped down over the other side of the building when he heard someone land on the rooftop, footsteps fast approaching, and Alexsandr panicked as he braced himself between the underside of a ledge and an iron railing, where a basket of withered flowers hung suspended over the streets below. He held his breath and tried to calm his racing heart as those footsteps dropped down to the ledge above his head and paused._

_Fabric rustled._

_Boots creaked._

_“You’re still here. You’re hiding under the ledge,” a man said firmly, his voice rich and strong, but not unkind. “You don’t have to hide. I’m just here to talk.”_

_Alexsandr bit his lip and said nothing, though a breath did stutter out of his chest with a hint of relief that he wasn’t in trouble. That the Jedi had sensed his presence, but not who he was or what he’d done. But he pushed that thought out of his mind quickly, knowing mind tricks and mind reading weren’t uncommon among the Jedi._

_“Your presence was sensed below, child. Master Yoda sent me up here. I’m one of the temple guards. Is there something we can do? Do you need help with something?”_

_“No.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Yes,” Alexsandr bit out. He just wanted the temple guard to go away, to leave him alone and let him descend the building in peace. He hadn’t meant to be sensed. He hadn’t meant to bring their attention down upon himself. Alexsandr released another breath and forced himself to calm down. “I just wanted to look at the gardens. I like flowers. You have a lot of nice ones in there.”_

_Really, it wasn’t a lie._

_The temple had beautiful gardens and Alexsandr liked admiring them when he had the opportunity, but he knew it was just a fraction of the truth. It wasn’t the whole reason he’d been there. He just hoped it would be enough to convince the temple guard._

_“Yes,” the temple guard said slowly, somewhat disbelieving, “we do. But I can’t imagine someone would climb up here just to admire some flowers, child.”_

_“I really like flowers,” Alexsandr answered earnestly, remembering the morning his sister came bustling through the front door with a handful of packets of seeds that she’d bought at the market — using up all of her savings in the process. He remembered the excitement on her face and the giddiness that spread between the pair of them as their mother helped them make a window box for the kitchen._

_“Alright.” The temple guard sighed and rose to his feet with a rustle of fabric and a creak of his boots. “But if you do need help someday, please understand that our doors are open at all hours. We would never turn you away.”_

_Alexsandr stiffened immediately, knowing it was a lie, knowing a Jedi had turned from him once before. He shifted angrily, and then felt something inside him lurch as his foot slipped. A shout caught in his throat as he lost his balance and —_

Alexsandr woke with a shout and flailed wildly, his hand smacking into something solid and earning a startled grunt of pain. He recoiled in an instant and toppled out of the bunk before a familiar scent registered and a relieved breath stuttered out of his chest.

Garazeb.

It was just Garazeb.

And then he realised he’d hit Garazeb.

“Shit.” His mouth twisted around a grimace as he scrambled toward the bunk and reached out with concerned hands, hoping he hadn’t caused too much damage with his flailing limbs. “Did I hurt —?!”

“I’m okay,” Garazeb said quickly, his large hand coming to rest on his shoulder. The broad tip of his thumb grazed the ridge of his collarbone. “I’m worried about ya, though. Was it a nightmare?”

“A memory,” Alexsandr corrected uneasily, dipping his head and retreating, allowing that large hand to slip from his shoulder despite the urge to shuffle closer and welcome more of that gentle contact. His fingers curled around the cuffs of his sleeves. “Not a bad one. Just surprising, really; I haven’t dreamt of Cal in a long time. I suppose being near him again must have triggered it. I missed him.”

“Ah. Well, that’s understandable.”

“I suppose.” Alexsandr worried at his sleeves, his thoughts winding back to his cousin. He directed a hopeful expression at Garazeb, though it was underscored with an obvious note of concern. “Will he be coming to see me soon? Or has he been sent on another mission?”

“Uh.” Garazeb paused awkwardly, and Alexsandr could almost hear him rubbing the back of his neck with his hand. He could almost imagine the subtle shift in his ears. “No. Cal isn’t part of this cell. Actually, I’m not sure he is part of one. He just showed up to help us. He left once we’d fled from Lothal.”

“Oh.” Alexsandr swallowed the emotions that surged in his chest. He refused to let them rise to the surface. He refused to let his face fall and show just how much the news affected him. He’d endured far worse than abandonment in his lifetime. He could handle this as well. But knowing that didn’t make it easier to stop his voice from tightening as Alexsandr said quietly, “I see.”

“He said he’d be comin’ back.” Garazeb spoke gently, and it was obvious that his smile had fallen off his face. “The lightsaber he used durin’ the extraction was stolen from an Inquisitor and the kyber crystals need to be purified. He said he’d come back once it was done. He hopes the purified crystals will find a better home here.”

Alexsandr stiffened.

It didn’t take a genius to discern what Cal meant with such a remark.

Alexsandr rose to his feet abruptly, his back rigid and his shoulders square, his hands curling into tight fists. He wouldn’t take them when Cal returned. He couldn’t. It was bad enough that there seemed to be a crystal in his bo-rifle, or so Garazeb mentioned during their escape from the complex. He didn’t need to bring more kyber crystals into his life. Because he knew what Cal meant with the gesture, what he intended.

And that just wasn’t possible.

Not now.

Not ever.

Alexsandr turned on his heel and fled their quarters immediately, his heart thundering hard in his chest and an ache building behind the bridge of his nose as he remembered the spark igniting beneath his skin. He remembered the murderous claw of his fingers and the overwhelming sense of hate that pulsed through his veins. He remembered the hand that gripped his calf and the soft voice that coaxed him down from the edge, almost pleading with him. He remembered the hesitation to do as Garazeb asked — to let go of the spark inside him. Alexsandr remembered how much he’d hungered to kill once the spark ignited within him.

Monster.

He was a monster.

He’d never escape the spark and the darkness it brought.

His stomach twisted with nausea and acid burned up his throat. 

Large hands caught him as his legs buckled.

Garazeb sank down to the floor with him and guided him carefully, easing his fall. One hand soothed between his shoulder blades as Alexsandr vomited all over the floor, his abdomen clenching painfully, over and over. It triggered his tear ducts in an instant.

“S’okay,” Garazeb said gently, his free hand holding his hair back easily, keeping it clear of the vomit that continued to choke itself out of Alexsandr, his too-thin frame curling up. His voice was a soft and soothing rumble that eased beneath his skin in an instant. “S’okay, Sasha. S’okay. Ya have nothin’ to be afraid of. I’ve got ya.”

Alexsandr couldn’t find the strength to push him away, to move away, to leave the warmth of his fur and the strength of his frame. He couldn’t help relaxing into his touch. Eventually, his stomach stopped clenching, stopped purging, though the pain of it remained. Weakly, Alexsandr spat out the last bits of bile that lingered in his mouth. 

“C’mon. Let’s get ya cleaned up. The refresher isn't too far from here.”

“But what about the floor?”

“Don’t worry; things like this happen often enough. Between trauma and regular illnesses that sometimes sweep through the base, the hygiene droids are kept on their toes.” Garazeb continued to soothe him with his hands, though he tugged him back from the pool of stinking vomit a little. “I’ve signalled a droid to come clean up. It’ll be along in a minute.”

Alexsandr didn’t resist the hands that pulled him to his feet. He didn’t resist the arm that wrapped around his shoulder and tugged him close, almost flush against Garazeb. He didn’t resist the gentle pressure that encouraged him to start moving, to start walking, guiding him around the pool of vomit and leading him down the corridor. Alexsandr didn’t have the strength to resist Garazeb, really, not unless the situation was as dire as it had been in the complex.

The sound of metallic footsteps signified the arrival of a hygiene droid just as the door to the communal refresher slid open. Alexsandr turned his head slightly, as though he might glance over his shoulder, and offered a few words of gratitude before Garazeb guided him into the refresher and the door slid shut behind them.

“Wait here a minute,” Garazeb said gently, his hand squeezing his shoulder before the Lasat let him go and stepped further into the refresher. “I stashed some spare toothbrushes in here for emergencies. Let me get one.”

Alexsandr said nothing and didn’t move, but to rest his hand against his belly, attempting to soothe the ache from his emptied stomach. It mortified him that he’d vomited in front of Garazeb, but it mollified him that the Lasat didn’t seem bothered in the least — as though he’d helped more than his fair share of people through the process of hurling their guts up.

And perhaps he had.

Garazeb was part of a close-knit crew and two of the members were still little more than children. Alexsandr knew children were walking petri dishes; it wouldn’t be a stretch of the imagination to assume Garazeb had helped them through illnesses from time to time.

“Here,” Garazeb said as soon as he returned. His limp seemed far less pronounced than it had before. Alexsandr was relieved to know his medical treatments were working, patching up that ankle at a good clip. “I grabbed some toothpaste too.” 

“Thank you.”

“S’nothin’.”

Alexsandr almost disagreed with him...but bit the words back at the last moment. He just took the offered brush and toothpaste from Garazeb and searched for the nearest sink. He focused on the task at hand. He tried not to think about the Lasat hovering somewhere behind him. He tried not to think about the fact that he’d forgotten to put on his boots in his haste to leave their quarters. He tried not to think about the instinctive curl of his toes as a faint chill climbed through his socks and up his ankles. He tried not to think of the reason he’d fled from Garazeb, from their quarters. Unfortunately, not thinking about it became harder when Garazeb broke the silence again. 

“Thanks. Ya know. For...for protectin’ me. On Lothal.”

Alexsandr almost inhaled a mouthful of foam before he managed to spit it into the sink and rinse his mouth out with a quick splash of cold water. He gripped his toothbrush tighter and tried not to show the shake of his hands. His shoulders ached with sudden tension. His sternum pushed against his lungs, as though it might suffocate him. Unable to muster the courage, Alexsandr didn’t turn to face Garazeb, but said quietly, “I did what had to be done. Nothing more.”

“It was a lot more than that.” Garazeb stepped closer, his voice soft. His voice carried hints of regret and anxiety, but also a quiet wonder. Hearing it made his stomach twist and it hurt more than he could bear. “Revealin’ a secret like that is dangerous. We both know that.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well. I think we should talk about what happened.” Garazeb came even closer, his warmth looming behind him. Alexsandr couldn’t decide which he wanted more: to cry, or to whirl around and punch the Lasat in the face. His free hand curled into a fist. “Thrawn. He said somethin’ about me in that corridor. What did he mean?”

“You were his next target.” Alexsandr couldn’t stop the words from escaping, couldn’t hide the faint quiver in his voice. He couldn’t stop himself from bowing his head as Garazeb paused behind him — close enough to brush against his back with each breath and still so far away, too far. The words hurt to say, but he had to be honest. He had to admit that Garazeb was hurt because of _him_. Garazeb had to understand the kind of danger he’d been in and the kind of danger he might still face in the future, if Thrawn ever found them again. “Thrawn intended to get the information he couldn’t get from me and hurt someone I cared about in the process. You were...hurt...because of me. Because of how much that night on that accursed moon changed me. Because of how much it mattered to me. When I was asking the Force for help, I wasn’t asking for me.” 

“Well. I’m safe. So....good job, I guess.”

Alexsandr almost choked on a startled laugh and then pressed a hand to his belly, grimacing, as an ache ripped through his tender stomach. A heartbeat passed before Alexsandr mustered enough courage to face Garazeb, his abdomen brushing against that familiar battlesuit. He reached out and touched an arm lightly, stating, “You did most of the work. Thank _you_. For everything.”

“All I did was throw some muscle around.” Garazeb huffed. Alexsandr felt muscle flex beneath his fingertips as the Lasat shuffled awkwardly, his voice low. “But I can’t imagine how much courage it took to stand up like that...after what Thrawn did. Chava was right. You _are_ the Warrior.”

“I’m not sure I understand…” Alexsandr couldn’t help frowning, focusing on one aspect of the conversation in the hope of bulldozing over the rest. But he knew his frown didn’t have as much effect while hidden behind a blindfold. “Who is Chava?”

“Chava is....” Alexsandr could almost hear Garazeb shaking his head. He could almost imagine the light flapping of his ears with the motion. Garazeb retreated a step. “Ya know what? Never mind about Chava. Never mind what I said. We can talk about all of that later. Ya have enough to contend with. Just focus on recoverin’.”

“Alright.” His frown deepened. But he didn’t argue the point. Whoever Chava was, and whatever Garazeb meant when he referred to him as the Warrior, Alexsandr didn’t care enough to dwell on it. If it was important to Garazeb, he knew it would come up in conversation again in the future. Perhaps when he’d regained some of his strength. Alexsandr released a breath and changed the subject. “How long did I sleep?”

“A day,” Garazeb answered. A small smile crept into his voice. “I ducked in and out. Ya didn’t wake up even once. Not even when the alarm on the chrono started goin’ off. I spoke to the Doc about it. She said it can happen sometimes after long periods of stress. Apparently, ya needed the rest.”

_A whole day_ , Alexsandr thought in quiet wonder. He’d never slept for that long before. Not even after Onderon. Actually, the opposite had been the case after Onderon. He’d gone several nights in a row without adequate sleep back then. He’d thought the same would be the case after his captivity, after Thrawn. _It goes to show how safe I feel here. How safe I feel with Garazeb._

“Apparently,” Alexsandr agreed at last. He didn’t give voice to his thoughts. He raised the toothbrush in his hand instead and waved it a little. A small smile curled his lips. “I’ll keep this. I can’t imagine someone would want to use it after me.”

“No, I can’t imagine so,” Garazeb agreed with a light huff of amusement. He touched his shoulder lightly, offering a gentle squeeze. “C’mon. Let’s head back to the room. I’ll put on some music and we can just relax for a while.”

“You’re not going to spend downtime with friends?”

“I’m goin’ to spend it makin’ some.”

“Oh.” Warmth bloomed behind his sternum without warning. Alexsandr bowed his head to hide how his smile deepened with startled pleasure, how his face warmed. But it wouldn’t surprise him to learn the Lasat noticed his shift in emotions all the same. Garazeb was far more astute than most people gave him credit for, after all. Once he’d schooled his face, Alexsandr looked up and said quietly, “I’d like that. I love music.”

“What kinds?”

“Bits of most things,” Alexsandr answered as he and Garazeb stepped out into the corridor together, the tensions from earlier almost forgotten. “I do favour orchestral pieces. But I haven’t had a chance to sit down and listen to something in a while, so whatever is on hand is fine with me.”

Spending the evening with Garazeb was an experience, but not a surprising one. Not when it came to his taste in music at least. What Garazeb favoured was much different to his own personal tastes, but it wasn’t unappealing. After spending seven months in captivity, Alexsandr was certain that hearing a Wookie screaming into a microphone would have been music to his ears. 

Alexsandr spent the hours sitting on the floor, resting his head against the mattress as he listened to the energetic music spilling into their quarters. His fingers tapped along to the beat against his thigh. His lips curled around a smile of contentment as Garazeb tended to his bo-rifle and hummed along with the music nearby, his presence warm and comforting, his scent reminding him that he was safe.

That he was allowed to relax and get comfortable.

That he was allowed to let his guard down.

That no one was going to barge in and take these small comforts from him.

What did surprise him was that Garazeb passed him some food now and then — various fruits and slices of bread slathered in butter, a small bowl of grated mild cheese, and even a light cupcake with soft meiloorun in the middle. It happened often enough that Alexsandr couldn’t help asking if he stole it from the mess hall.

“Nah.” Garazeb huffed in amusement. “Chan Huzo, the Doc’s niece, gave me a basket of stuff this mornin’ when I popped in to grab breakfast. She filled it with light snacks mostly, but there are a few treats in there.”

Alexsandr couldn’t help feeling touched. He cradled the latest fruit in the cup of his hands carefully, cherishing its weight and texture for a long moment. He’d have to make time to speak with her, to thank her for her consideration and kindness, knowing he didn’t deserve it. Not even after his intel helped her in the past. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough to undo his past and remake his future, but perhaps his drive to be better still mattered in the scheme of things.

The Huzos seemed to think so. 

Finally, Alexsandr raised the fruit to his lips and took a careful bite, the flesh giving beneath his teeth with ease. Flavour swelled against his tongue, cool and crisp and sweet. Alexsandr tried not to let the juices drip into his beard. He didn’t want to make a mess. He didn’t want to lose a single drop of the unexpected gift he’d been given. He wanted to savour it. Alexsandr wanted to make it last.

Who knew when a stranger might treat him with such undeserved kindness again?

After turning the music down and before retiring, Garazeb offered to help him rub lotion across the sunburns decorating the back of his neck and shoulders and Alexsandr accepted the offer without thinking, knowing that stretching to do it himself would put too much pressure on his sunburns and bruises. The ramifications of his decision didn’t set in until an awkward silence stretched between them.

Neither of them seemed sure how to approach each other.

Eventually, Garazeb huffed in frustration and seized his arm with a firm hand. He hauled him closer abruptly, framing him with the loose spread of his powerful thighs. Embarrassment rippled through both of them before Garazeb popped the jar open and set to work. His touch was light and soothing despite the pain that flared whenever his fingers grazed a bad patch.

The cooling effect of the lotion was immediate.

Alexsandr couldn’t help sighing, his shoulders deflating, leaning into his touch as the Lasat spread the lotion across the available skin. Garazeb huffed behind him again and Alexsandr could almost hear a small smile in the sound even as the gust of his breath rippled through the uneven strands of his hair. Alexsandr couldn’t help the faint shiver that rippled through him when he felt the gust of his warm breath.

Garazeb Orrelios was going to be the death of him.

Alexsandr wasn’t certain whether it terrified or exhilarated him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Hope y'all are doing well this week.

Unlike Doctor Huzo, the dental technician wasn’t kind and welcoming. His presence was so cold and intimidating that Alexsandr refused to be alone with him for a single moment. He insisted on having Garazeb or Chopper present for the appointment that took place a week after he’d arrived on the base. As Garazeb was head of security, and had to return to work once he’d finished healing, the task was left to Chopper.

If something went wrong, if the dental technician proved untrustworthy, Alexsandr was confident that Chopper would intervene. The astromech was cunning, clever, and calculating, and most of the rebels on the base seemed to fear him for one reason or another. Alexsandr chose to trust Chopper to watch over him during the procedure for that reason alone.

Two extractions and five fillings later, the dental technician kicked him out of the medbay, and Alexsandr slid down the nearest wall to slump on the floor. His face was more numb than he’d ever experienced before and his head was woozy, unbalanced. He wasn’t certain whether the dental technician had used more anaesthetic than required or whether he was just too thin and too weak to handle the drugs coursing through him. Alexsandr hadn’t regained much weight since he’d arrived on the base, knowing that recovering his former health and strength would take time and patience, and couldn’t be rushed. 

Rushing was dangerous.

Chopper bumped his side and wubbed at him in concern.

“I’m fine,” Alexsandr mumbled to the old astromech. A smile curled his lips as he patted his dome with a gentle hand. “I just need to rest here a bit. That procedure was a lot to endure in one sitting.”

“I’m sure it was,” said a kind voice from down the corridor. “I’ll have a word with him.”

Alexsandr froze immediately, his hand still resting on the dome. He didn’t recognise the voice in the slightest. But Chopper didn’t seem alarmed as footsteps approached at a steady, relaxed pace that attempted to put him at ease. Alexsandr turned his head in their direction and said nothing, tracking their movements with his ears, waiting for them to pass him or introduce themself. 

The man came to a stop in front of him.

“I’m Jan Dodonna.”

“Sir,” Alexsandr breathed in horrified surprise, doing his best to scramble to his feet. He tried to salute and almost lost his balance, his tired knees wobbling, and his face warmed with mortification at appearing so weak in front of a superior officer. He forced his spine to straighten and forced his shoulders back. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I didn’t realise — had I known —”

“Please,” Dodonna said kindly, a smile in his voice. “Relax. I’m not here in an official capacity; I just wanted to have a word. I can take a seat here or we can return to the office and have some chilled tea. Your choice. I don’t mind.”

“Your office, Sir, of course.” Alexsandr couldn’t abide the thought of forcing a superior officer to sit on the floor with him. Not when that particular superior was both a notable war hero from the Clone Wars and an infamous defector like himself. The mere thought of Jan Dodonna sitting on the floor horrified him. Even as an enemy, Alexsandr had never thought of the man with less than respect and admiration. His nails dug into his palms and then Alexsandr directed an uncertain expression at the astromech beside him. “Would it be alright to bring Chopper with me? I need a guide.”

“Fine, fine. The more, the merrier.”

Dodonna walked at a sedate pace and hummed to himself. It was easy, so easy, to imagine the elder officer with hands clasped behind his back as he admired this and that along their path back to his office

Alexsandr still struggled to keep pace with the elder man. Between stepping warily, without Garazeb to keep him steady, and his weakened muscles following the procedure, the trek was more taxing than he’d like. But he didn’t complain. He refused to complain. Even if the trek was taxing, Alexsandr knew that having a chance to speak with someone like Jan Dodonna on a somewhat personal level couldn’t be passed up.

It was a relief to sink into one of the waiting chairs when the three of them reached their destination at last. Unlike the chairs in an Imperial office, the one Alexsandr sank into was soft and welcoming, cushioning his tired bones and joints with ease. He couldn’t stop a surprised and contented sigh from escaping him.

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Please. Call me Jan. As I said before, this isn’t official.” Dodonna seemed to smile at him as he settled into the chair on the other side of his desk. A similar sigh of contentment escaped the elder man as cushions creaked under his weight. “I’d hoped we’d speak sooner, but Captain Orrelios asked me to wait until a week or so had passed. Understandable, given the circumstances.”

Glasses clinked.

Tea poured.

Cushions creaked as Dodonna leaned forward and set a glass of chilled tea in front of him.

“Let it warm a little before drinking,” Dodonna advised as Alexsandr searched for the glass carefully, the movements of his hands slow and measured. “You shouldn’t have a lot of heat or cold after such a procedure.”

Alexsandr inclined his head in acknowledgment as he wrapped his hands around the cold glass at last. The chill was pleasant against his fingers and he basked in it briefly, a small smile threatening to curl his lips. Discreetly, Alexsandr inhaled the subtle scent of the tea. It was soft and citrusy, with undertones of spice and honey; it was pleasant.

A moment of silence passed and then another. 

“You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes,” Dodonna confirmed again. Glass clinked as he set his tea down on the desk. “Whenever we get a new defector, I like to have a chat with them — one defector to another. I find it helps them settle, find their feet. I’ve never much liked the sink or swim approach of some generals. I trust the rebels here are being civil?”

“Most keep their distance and I can’t blame them.” Alexsandr kept his head bowed as he spoke and was relieved that his blindfold kept part of his expression obscured. “Some have been more welcoming than I’d ever anticipated and a few have made their displeasure known. Not with threats. But...just...general attitude. I can’t fault them for that either. But there are others that are...harder to read and I’m not sure whether I’m being paranoid...but Thrawn said he had spies here when he captured me.”

“Yes,” Dodonna said quietly, but gravely, “I’m afraid so. It didn’t take long to realise it after Atollon was discovered. A transmission on its own wouldn’t have been enough to reveal the location. We’ve been rooting them out slowly; we can’t do it all at once or the Empire will know we’re on to them. Unfortunately, as the spies know our location...we’ve had to take drastic measures. It isn’t something we like doing, but difficult decisions have to be made.”

“I understand.” His grip tightened around his glass in increments. Alexsandr raised it and took a careful sip, swallowing the chilled tea with some struggle. Once upon a time, such an unpleasant task might have been left in the hands of someone like him. Someone who knew how to get close to a target without earning their suspicion and slip a vibroshiv between their ribs, hand clamped hard over their mouth to muffle the sound that escaped. Someone who could cover their tracks and make it look like a routine mission gone wrong. That someone would never be him again. Alexsandr wasn’t certain whether that knowledge comforted him or set him adrift in a churning sea of purposelessness. “Someone has to get their hands dirty, no matter what side of the war we’re on. Can I offer assistance at all?”

“We have it under control. But I appreciate the offer.” Dodonna sipped his tea for several moments. He set his glass down then and released a soft sigh. “There is something I would like to discuss, however, and we both know what it is.”

Alexsandr stilled.

Dodonna waited for a word of acknowledgement.

Alexsandr said nothing.

Finally, Dodonna said pointedly, “You can use the Force.”

Alexsandr set his glass down with more force than he intended. Chilled tea splashed over the back of his hand and he retreated into his chair, his frame tense. He’d known this conversation was coming, but he hadn’t expected it to come so soon. He’d thought he’d have more time to wrestle with the turbulent emotions coursing through him before having to face such a discussion. Alexsandr angled an expressionless mask at Dodonna. 

“I’m not trained.”

“No, I didn’t think so.” Alexsandr could almost hear the man dipping his head in acknowledgement. “I’d have remembered a Padawan named Alexsandr Kallus. I remember all the Padawans from the Clone Wars. You wouldn’t have been with the ISB either, if Palpatine had the slightest idea. You guarded the secret well.”

Alexsandr gripped the arms of his chair and said nothing.

“But I have to wonder why,” Dodonna said quietly, the weight of his gaze steady, “you didn’t reveal it sooner. You didn’t have to remain a prisoner for seven months. You could have escaped. We both know being blind isn’t the end of the world. You’ve witnessed as much with Kanan Jarrus.”

Alexsandr didn’t clench his jaw, knowing it would undermine the dental work. But the temptation to do so was strong, almost stronger than he could tolerate. He tensed the muscles in his legs instead and felt pain shoot through the tendons in his calves. The sudden pain was both a distraction and a relief.

“You could be trained to use the Force — to use it as a permanent guide as Kanan does, and to use it as a weapon in conjunction with the martial skill you have already,” Dodonna added. “That option is available now.”

“No.”

“No?” Alexsandr could almost hear Dodonna blinking, surprised at his answer, and more surprised at the cold vehemence behind it. Dodonna sighed then. “Well. I don’t intend to force the issue. You’re a free man and can make whatever decisions seen fit. But...I would encourage taking some time to at least consider the matter. You’ll be assigned to the _Ghost_ crew either way, once Doctor Huzo clears you for active duty; Commander Syndulla made the request herself. The decision hasn’t been finalised...but I wanted to give some warning. You’ll have more than enough time to get used to the idea.” 

“Is that all? Sir?”

“Yes,” Dodonna said through another sigh. His voice carried a note of disappointment. But he followed the prompt from Alexsandr all the same and seemed to straighten in his chair, returning to a more formal attitude. “Agent Kallus, you’re more than welcome to return for tea and a chat next week. Is there anything you need before then?”

“I want a datapad with voice-command and text-to-voice and voice-to-text applications.”

“I’ll have the techies take care of it.”

“Sir,” Alexsandr said stiffly, rising to his feet with care. His calves threatened to cramp. He hesitated for a moment and then added quietly, “Thanks for the tea. I do appreciate the offer and I would be interested in returning, but I’d rather not discuss the Force again. Enjoy the day, Sir.”

“You as well.” Dodonna seemed to smile then. His voice carried hints of relief. He rose from his chair and came around the desk to capture his hand and give it a brief shake. “I apologise for the discomfort I caused earlier. I didn’t realise it would be such a sore subject. Whatever the issue is, please consider having a word with Kanan. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to help.”

“I will...consider it.”

“That’s all I ask.”

“Sir,” Alexsandr said one last time, the word a little less stiff on his tongue. He inclined his head and left the office on quick feet as Chopper followed closely, wubbing at him. As soon as the door closed behind Alexsandr, he added quietly, but firmly, “No, I didn’t mean what I said. I’ve no intention of speaking to Jarrus about the Force or otherwise.”

Despite his insistence, the conversation he’d had with Dodonna plagued Alexsandr. It plagued his nights, bringing uncomfortable dreams of his childhood and the fond smile his mother wore whenever he made the forks and knives dance across the kitchen table for her. It plagued his waking hours, forcing itself to the front of his mind whenever he tripped over uneven stone or bumped into a crate, whenever he walked into a wall or a door while Chopper or Garazeb were distracted. It plagued him whenever he heard the murmurs, the incessant whispers, of rebels watching him in the mess hall and speculating, doing their best to figure out what Former ISB Agent Alexsandr Kallus could be so afraid of. It plagued him when Jarrus came to his quarters each morning, inviting him to a meditation session with him and Bridger, whose gaze would weigh down on him like duracrete.

And it continued to plague him three weeks later when he made the careful trek down to the hangar, his hand sliding against the wall as he counted his steps, counted the doors, the turns and corridors, doing his best to memorise more of the base — just as he’d been doing since he’d first arrived.

Alexsandr didn’t want to be dependent on Garazeb or Chopper. He didn’t want to need them to get around the base. He didn’t want to be seen as useless or incapable. He wanted to prove that he could still be an asset without resorting to using the spark inside, without giving in to the pressure building at the back of his mind as that growling voice whispered and whispered until he couldn’t tolerate the sound of it.

His breathing quick and heavy, Alexsandr paused at the edge of the hangar and tried to calm himself. His muscles were stronger now and he’d regained some of the weight he’d lost during his captivity, but the humid heat and large expanse of the base still took a lot out of him each time he dared to make a trek through the large rebel complex. His fingernails digging into the stone, Alexsandr listened to the bustling of the rebels ahead of him — the cheerful and frustrated shouts, the distant bursts of laughter, the mechanised sounds of droids walking and rolling, and the sound of equipment making repairs.

In the distance, Alexsandr could hear Garazeb laughing, the sound deep and energetic, sending a burst of warmth and bittersweet longing through his chest. He wouldn’t hear that voice for much longer, he knew. Chopper had informed him about the impending mission already, had offered to stay, and Alexsandr had recoiled immediately, biting back a snarl before it could escape. He’d sent the astromech away; he’d locked himself in his quarters and pressed a pillow against his face until he grew lightheaded and the pillow slipped from his weakened grasp. 

It was better than screaming his grief and frustration.

It was better than feeling distressed tears well. 

It was better than trashing his quarters.

Now, lingering at the edge of the hangar, Alexsandr didn’t know what to do. He hadn’t visited the area much since he’d arrived and knew he wouldn’t be able to close the distance between himself and Garazeb without disrupting other rebels, without tripping or walking into something blocking his path. His fingers worried at one of the loose threads of his new old jacket that sat too loose around his shoulders. His lips twisted with bitterness, with so much grief and fear, and other emotions that he wasn’t willing to give a name to.

As though sensing his presence, Garazeb said brightly, “Sasha!”

“Garazeb,” Alexsandr greeted quietly, once the Lasat had closed the distance between them on quick feet. He couldn’t help retreating a step, instinct pushing him to keep a careful distance between himself and the hangar now that Garazeb was close enough to touch. He hesitated before adding, “Chopper told me about the mission. Will it be...safe?”

“Should be,” Garazeb answered easily, a smile slipping into his voice. It sounded almost like fondness, but Alexsandr didn’t delude himself for more than a moment. It wouldn’t do to let his wishful thinking get the better of him. Not when four weeks wasn’t enough time to build a proper friendship, let alone something more...intimate. “Just runnin’ some supplies to a few rebel outposts. Ya worried about me?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr admitted. He ducked his head. His frame tensed as memories of their escape from Lothal came rushing back to the surface — the sound of Garazeb roaring in pain and falling, the horrible scent of burnt fur, and those measured steps approaching. That slick voice and those frostbitten words threatening his rebel heart. Alexsandr clamped down on his scarred lip hard with his teeth before adding, hesitantly, “You’ll be careful?”

“I will.” Surprisingly, Garazeb didn’t tease him. “Thrawn will be out of action for a while longer after what Cal did to him. But I’ll keep an ear out. I don’t want a repeat of Lothal. You’ll be alright when I’m gone?”

_No._

“I’ll be fine.” Alexsandr raised his head and offered a small smile. “I’ve memorised enough of the base that I think I’ll manage for a while. Perhaps I’ll have it all memorised before the _Ghost_ returns.”

“I’d like to see that.” Garazeb clapped him on the shoulder, letting his hand linger. The action was gentler than he’d expected and still made him stagger, but a small huff of fond laughter escaped Alexsandr all the same. “Ya want to grab a cup of caf or somethin’ before we head off?”

“No,” Alexsandr declined with a slight shake of his head. He took a step back and ignored the pang of longing in his chest when that large, warm hand slipped from his shoulder. He ignored the slight shake in his hands. “You have work to do, things to prepare. I don’t want to distract from that for much longer.”

Silence fell between them then. It wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was somewhat awkward as both of them lingered just outside the hangar, the sounds of the rebellion a constant clammer in the background. A few people bustled past them and knocked into Alexsandr before Garazeb cupped his elbow, guiding him further out of the way, moving them even closer to the wall beside them. Loose stone crumbled and fell to the floor as the pair of them brushed against the wall. 

“Ya don’t have to stay, ya know,” Garazeb said after several moments of continued silence while Alexsandr tried not to fidget with the threads of his sleeve. “On the base, I mean. Ya could come with us and get some fresh air.”

“Yavin is full of fresh air, Garazeb.”

“Ya know what I mean.” Garazeb huffed in frustration and punched his shoulder lightly, the glancing blow a miniscule fraction of his usual strength. “Ya know what I’m askin’. Don’t be obtuse.”

“I’d be a hindrance.” Alexsandr shook his head. He couldn’t tell whether the heat building in his chest was from fondness or outrage, from knowing that Garazeb wanted to spend more time with him or from knowing the Lasat was holding back even though most of his bruises had healed. “I won’t jeopardise the mission like that. You shouldn’t ask me to.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Garazeb sighed and Alexsandr heard his claws comb through his fur, the sound faint and almost unnoticeable, but for the fact that Alexsandr had become more in tune with the sounds around him in the last month. The Lasat stepped away, taking the warmth of his presence with him. “Come with us or don’t. S’up to you. Just thought it’d be nice.”

Alexsandr started to reply, but fell silent when he realised Garazeb was gone faster than he could offer a response. Something unnameable welled in his chest and the pressure behind his sternum sharpened until he didn’t know whether he wanted to scream or cry; Alexsandr curled his hands into fists instead and dug his nails into his palms until it hurt. Alexsandr turned on his heel and left the hangar, hastening back to the quarters he shared with Garazeb, and barricading himself inside.

Without pausing to consider whether he was making a mistake, Alexsandr moved towards the one thing that would comfort him: the scent permeating the bunk he’d shared with Garazeb during his first night on the base. Climbing into the bunk was wrong, he knew, but the need for comfort was stronger than the growling voice whispering at the back of his mind. Alexsandr buried his face in the pillow and inhaled deeply, his frame melting, relaxing against the bedclothes.

His own scent would fade before the _Ghost_ crew returned from their mission.

Briefly, Alexsandr let himself wonder what it might be like to go with Garazeb, to step back onto the _Ghost_ and be part of a crew that respected each other for the first time in his life. He let himself wonder what he might do, how he might help, and struggled to find an answer. The crew had more than enough mechanics and splicers. It had cleverness and muscle. It had more than its fair share of Jedi. What use could the crew have for someone like him now? He was an unneeded surplus. Alexsandr growled in frustration.

Garazeb didn’t need to ask him to come with them.

Hera hadn’t needed to request his assignment to the crew for when Doctor Huzo cleared him.

His presence wasn’t a requirement and Alexsandr couldn’t fathom why, why either of them would bother to request his presence on the ship. Truthfully, his presence in their lives would make them more of a target than ever. Alexsandr knew what his head was worth to the ISB: just under a million credits, a sum that might even increase the longer he remained elusive. He was a traitor and a spy, a known thorn in the side of the ISB, and he had a connection with the Force.

That last fact alone had sent the price on his head to half a million credits.

Alexsandr sighed and rolled over onto his back as though he might stare at the ceiling, the weight of his head shoving the knot securing his blindfold down further, tangling with the loose locks of his hair. His feet just touched the edge of the mattress. Alexsandr gripped the bedclothes, his fingers curling around small fistfuls of soft fabric.

He didn’t know what to do.

_You do know what to do_ , that growling voice whispered at the back of his mind. _You just won’t do it. You won’t let the fear go and welcome the spark inside again. You won’t accept the gift you were born with._

“It isn’t a gift.” The words escaped in a whisper, his voice cracking around them. His grip on the bedclothes tightened and his nails threatened to rip through the fabric. “You know what I’ve done, what I could do again. I won’t put the people here at risk.”

_No, you won’t. Not with training._

“Shut up,” Alexsandr growled as he sat up, his shoulders tensing and hunching as he settled his feet on the floor. He surged off the bed and fixed his blindfold with a snarl. His clothes seemed to weigh him down now. “Just shut the fuck up.”

Alexsandr headed back out into the corridor and found himself outside the hangar before he realised what he was doing. He froze at the outskirts as the song of a familiar engine began in the distance, the _Ghost_ heating up and preparing to leave. Even if he’d changed his mind and chosen to go, it was too late. Alexsandr sighed and his shoulders slumped with something akin to defeat as he listened to the old freighter rise from the ground and move away, leaving the rebel base behind.

Leaving _him_ behind.

His chest panged.

“You’re a fool.”

“Excuse me,” Alexsandr asked sharply, turning towards the unexpected voice, feminine and strong — the voice of someone who took no nonsense, who wouldn’t have an issue with punching his lights out.

“You’re a fool to turn down someone like Garazeb Orrelios,” the woman said firmly, elaborating on the point she’d begun a moment earlier. Alexsandr heard wheels rolling, heard a grunt as she rose to her feet and a clang of metal as she set her tools aside. “Someone like that doesn’t come along all the time, Sasha.”

“You don’t get to call me that.”

“Please,” the woman said caustically, determined footsteps approaching rapidly, bringing the strong scent of grease and sweat with them. Alexsandr couldn’t help wrinkling his nose before the woman added sharply, “You’ve been Sasha since we were kids. I’m not going to stop now.” 

Alexsandr paled in an instant.

“Mila.”

“Yeah. I thought we wouldn’t see each other again either.” A heartbeat of silence followed the snide remark and then she said quietly, almost apologetically, “But I suppose _see_ is the wrong word to use. Sorry, I guess.”

Alexsandr said nothing, too floored to even think of an appropriate response. It had been so long, too long, and Alexsandr couldn’t even fathom what his sister might look like now. He’d never thought it would be a situation he’d have to face. He’d thought he’d be in his grave long before Mila ever deigned to reach out to speak to him. His hands shook and he almost reached out to her, but he knew it wouldn’t be welcome. He wasn’t welcome. Alexsandr knew that from her voice alone.

“I’d hoped I’d be able to avoid a meeting like this, but I can’t abide such stupidity,” Mila said as she came to a stop in front of him. He could almost feel the laboured gust of her breath against his face. “You’re going to agree the next time Zeb offers something like that. Got it?”

“You were here all this time,” Alexsandr whispered at last. The sudden and unexpected words constricted his throat and grief stabbed through his chest immediately, plunging deep and twisting hard. His lungs threatened to crush his words. “No one told me.”

“Yeah. Well. I asked them not to. I didn’t explain that we were related until I had to. Dodonna didn’t give me a choice after Cal blabbed about the Kestis and Kallus families being connected. That little shit knew I was using Kestis as an alias. I wouldn’t be surprised if he did that on purpose.”

Mila huffed angrily, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her lips twisting with it.

Far too easily, Alexsandr could remember her anger, and how much it resembled that of their father, whenever the fuse burnt through and she exploded about the man that made their lives hell while he was at work and it was safe to do so. He could remember the forks and knives and other unbreakables she threw before their mother would seize her from behind and hug her until she broke down in tears, the pair of them sinking to their knees amid the mess. Alexsandr could remember patting her soft and luxurious brown-red hair, doing his best to help comfort her, and the wet smile she’d give him before pulling him into their hug, wrapping her arms tight around him.

Just remembering it was like a punch to the gut.

Mila sighed then and said tiredly, “Look. We can’t afford to leave this wound festering now that we’re both here and working for the same side. We should at least _attempt_ to mend bridges; the last thing the rebellion needs is in-fighting and distrust.”

Alexsandr said nothing.

“I’m meeting some people for caf in a minute. You should come.”

Alexsandr hesitated.

“Please.”

“Alright.” Alexsandr didn’t let his hopes climb too high. He knew the offer wasn’t because she wanted to spend time with him. It was an act of necessity, and nothing more. When Mila wasn’t struggling with her anger, she’d tried to be a practical person when she was a teenager and that habit seemed to linger even now. It was a good trait for a rebel to have. Alexsandr couldn’t help feeling a spark of approval despite his reservations. “Who are we meeting?”

“My partners.”

“Partners,” Alexsandr croaked. He hadn’t even considered something like that. That his sister might meet someone, might fall in love and learn to be happy; he’d been too focused on the knowledge that she was afraid of him. That she’d fled from him. That she’d never wanted to see him again. “You...have partners?”

“Two.”

“I’m...I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Mila answered quietly, and what sounded like a small smile slipped into her voice. She moved past him and Alexsandr hesitated before following, his ears tracking her movements. “I was serious, you know, about Zeb. He’s a good bean. You need good influences. You should give him a chance.”

“You’re reading too much into it.”

“I don’t know,” Mila mused. She chuckled. “You don’t see how he looks at you.”

“Shut up,” Alexsandr grumbled. His face warmed against his will. He couldn’t tell whether it was from embarrassment or anger, though he supposed it didn’t matter. He shoved his hands into his pockets to hide their tremors and curled his fists, his nails digging into his palms all over again. “You’re just rubbing it in now.”

“That’s part of the job,” Mila said with a small laugh. “Or have you forgotten?” 

Alexsandr said nothing; he wasn’t sure what to say, how to express that he hadn’t forgotten her or forgotten her job as his elder sister. How to express how much he’d missed her. He wasn’t sure she’d even want to hear it. Alexsandr focused on following her, on noticing the approach of other rebels and doing his best to sidestep out of their way, though Mila had to grab his arm and pull him a step farther once or twice — which was awkward and uncomfortable, given the decades the pair hadn’t spoken to each other, let alone touched.

It wasn’t long until the pair of them were seated in the mess, next to each other, and holding steaming mugs of caf. Unlike the tables he often sat at with Garazeb, the table Mila chose was large and it could seat four people with ease, no matter their size. It seemed to be in a quiet corner rather than the middle of the bustle, but that wasn’t surprising, given that Mila had intended to meet her partners; in her place, Alexsandr would have chosen such seclusion as well.

A few uncomfortable minutes of silence passed before two sets of footsteps approached. One set was heavy, long, but unhurried. It suggested someone from a large race. The other was lighter and shorter, but quicker, keeping pace with the first set. 

Alexsandr hesitated before rising, offering his hand in greeting, hoping one of them would deign to shake his hand to save him from abject humiliation. He managed a small smile despite his nerves and discomfort as he said quietly, “I’m Alexsandr. Pleased to meet you.”

“You don’t need an introduction. We all know who Alexsandr Kallus is,” said the larger partner abruptly, her voice deep and strong, powerful. She didn’t take his hand. “Wish I could say the same.” 

“Right. Of course,” Alexsandr answered tensely, his throat constricting. He shoved his hand into his pocket and sat back down immediately, bowing his head as he clenched his jaw. Hearing his name spoken aloud still affected him deeply, even after a month of freedom.

“Don’t listen to her,” said the second partner, voice rougher and warmer, rugged. He almost seemed to smile. “She just wasn’t expecting company; neither of us were. I’m Taris Moxla and this is Zan Krell.”

Moxla and Krell. Those surnames rang a distant bell.

The first came to the forefront of his mind easily; Alexsandr had dealings with more than his fair share of members from the Moxla Clan in the past. Hunters and informants. Sometimes as mercenaries. He remembered the black tattoos on their cheeks. It wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to assume Taris Moxla had them as well. 

The second surname, however… That took a few moments to realise where he knew it from.

“Krell as in... Pong Krell?”

“Unfortunately,” Zan muttered before throwing herself into a vacant seat with a loud grunt. “He was an uncle of mine. Never met him though. Good thing, I guess. Are you just leaving or...?”

“I invited him.” Mila spoke quietly, but calmly, a frown in her voice. “Be nice.”

“I am.”

“You don’t know the meaning of nice,” Taris said around a smile as he settled into his own seat opposite Alexsandr, bumping the table a little in the process. Alexsandr heard him lounge in the chair, relaxed and uncaring, heedless of those around him. He couldn’t help wondering what that might be like as Taris added cheerfully, “You must get that from your uncle.”

“Oh, shut up,” Zan groused.

There was a smile in her voice, however, and Alexsandr heard the creak of her chair as she leaned over and then the wet sound of a kiss. A second kiss came a moment later, but it was received from another direction.

Mila.

Hearing that kiss was strange and discomfiting. Alexsandr found it hard to shake the image of his sister as a teenager, composed of long limbs and anger, rebellious at heart and still so soft and tender with those that mattered to her — with Alexsandr and their mother, with Cal and his parents. It was hard to imagine her older, and harder to imagine or even think of her being intimate with someone. Two people. Alexsandr wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from learning such a thing, if he was honest with himself.

But he’d never admit as much out loud.

Taris seemed to sense his discomfort and gave his leg a nudge with his foot before stating, “You might as well get used to it. Now we’re having caf together, I can’t imagine Mila will let things go back to how it was. You’re going to be around for a lot more kisses! We’re an affectionate bunch!”

“Taris!”

“Hey, I’m just telling it how it is,” Taris answered easily, his voice bright with a mischievous grin as he shuffled in his seat and leaned forward. “You know I’m right.”

“He has a point. You never can keep your hands to yourself.”

“I regret this already,” Mila complained.

“You should’ve thought of that before inviting him to have caf with us.”

Mila slurped her caf loudly, ignoring Zan.

Alexsandr wrinkled his nose in distaste. It seemed some things didn’t change. That was a small comfort in the face of all the awkwardness of the situation he’d found himself in. Still...the sound of her slurping her caf was a small price to pay, if Alexsandr had a chance to at least mend some of the bridges from his past. 

He just hoped nothing happened to jeopardise it again.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!

Two weeks passed before the _Ghost_ returned from running supplies. Two weeks filled with unshakable nightmares that woke Alexsandr at all hours, throat sore from screaming, his face drenched with sweat and his knuckles bruised and raw from striking the wall and the frame of his bunk in his sleep. His screams were often loud enough to catch the attention of General Draven down the hallway, and the man wasn’t happy, though that wasn’t a surprise.

No one liked to have their few precious hours of sleep disrupted.

His knuckles wrapped and his face bruised from lack of sleep, Alexsandr waited at the edge of the hangar, allowing himself to lean against the wall to keep himself upright. He’d resisted the urge to crawl into the vacant bunk in his quarters for two weeks, resisted the temptation of burrowing his face in the lingering and comforting scent of Garazeb, and it showed in his unbalanced stance.

It took a while for Garazeb to notice him.

It took longer for Alexsandr to straighten as the Lasat approached.

“Ya look like shit.”

“Thanks,” Alexsandr grumbled hoarsely, sore throat protesting. He hesitated where he stood. He wanted nothing more than to step closer, to press his face against soft fur and inhale a deep lungful of that fresh scent. He wanted to wrap his arms around that large, impressive torso, and grip fistfuls of that familiar battlesuit. His aching throat constricted around a sudden lump. “How was the mission?”

“Fine,” Garazeb answered easily, a wide grin in his voice. He surprised Alexsandr with the sudden weight of his arm around his shoulders, pulling him close to his side as he guided him away, large hand draping down over his upper arm. Swallowing thickly, Alexsandr tried not to react to his sudden proximity, tried not to gasp and press even closer to his side, tried not to show his weakness. Garazeb was a friend and nothing more; there was nothing else to it. “We had no trouble at all!”

“I’m glad to hear it. I was worried.”

“I can tell.” Garazeb huffed with amusement. He patted his arm lightly, the tips of his claws catching on his sleeve. “Ya need to find hobbies, Sasha. Somethin’ to distract ya. Keep that head of yers occupied.”

“I do have something,” Alexsandr admitted quietly, the corner of his mouth curling around a small smile as the pair of them moved through the base, slipping around rebels, and turning down various corridors. “It isn’t a hobby, but it does provide some distraction.”

Garazeb hummed in question.

“My sister. She’s here. On the base.”

“Ya have a sister?!” Garazeb jerked to a stop without warning and Alexsandr almost tripped over his own feet before catching his balance, his hand curling around a fistful of that battlesuit. “Ya never said.”

“We lost contact for a long time.” Alexsandr retracted his hand slowly, reluctantly, debating how much to reveal about his sister. Whether he should divulge how the rift between them came to be. Alexsandr wasn’t sure he was prepared to reveal so much of himself. “I didn’t know she was here until two weeks ago. You might know her? Her name is Mila Kestis, but Kallus is her real name.”

“Huh. I do know her,” Garazeb said in surprise and then he started moving again now that the shock seemed to have worn off. “We’ve worked together once or twice, gettin’ other temples cleared out for repurposin’. Ya look almost nothin’ alike — save for that small bit of red in her hair.”

“We took after different parents.” Her resemblance to their father was something Mila had hated growing up, enough to turn the mirror in her room around to face the wall. It saddened him to think of it. “I’m glad we ended up on the same base,” Alexsandr said finally, pushing thoughts of their father aside. “Spending time with her has been nice, if somewhat uncomfortable. Her girlfriend doesn’t like me much.”

“She’ll warm up, I’m sure.”

“I hope so.” Alexsandr sighed and shook his head as the pair of them stepped into the mess, the familiar sound of bustling swelling around them. “But enough about me. Let’s grab some food and find a table. You can tell me all about the mission then.”

“Not much to tell.”

“Humour me,” Alexsandr answered with a smile as the pair of them slipped into the queue for the distant counter, the scent of various hot foods assailing his senses. His mouth watered even as indecision filtered into his thoughts. He wasn’t sure what he wanted today; some Rodian cuisine or Twi’leki. But perhaps something strong and Mandalorian or Devaronian might be better suited after two weeks of poor sleep, to give him a bit of a boost. Alexsandr hummed in thought as he and Garazeb approached the counter at last. “It all smells so good.”

“Looks good too,” Garazeb brightly, leaning over his shoulder to take a strong whiff of the cuisine laid out ahead of them. His ear twitched against the side of his head and Alexsandr bit his lip to stop a bark of startled laughter from escaping, the brush of that long ear tickling his temple. “Think I might have some of that Twi’leki stuff. That sauce looks interestin’. Ya want some?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr said with some relief as Garazeb took the choice out of his hands. It was so much easier to choose something to eat when Garazeb was nearby; the Lasat had impeccable taste in cuisine, between that sensitive nose of his and his more experienced palate. “Sounds good.”

It wasn’t long until the pair of them were at their usual table, hunched over their plates as Garazeb waffled about the mission. He didn’t mention locations, but waxed poetic about the different biospheres, the various flora and fauna. Alexsandr listened intently, a small smile curling his lips, a blossom of warmth blooming behind his sternum.

With Garazeb safe and sound on the base once more, Alexsandr knew he’d sleep well that night.

“Ya goin’ to tell me what happened to those hands?” Garazeb asked sometime later, once he’d cleared his plate with a contented sigh and a loud pat of his belly, leaning back in his chair. “Ya get into fights while I was gone or somethin’?” 

“No, no, nothing like that.” Alexsandr shook his head. Self-consciously, he continued eating, but his stomach twisted with nerves. He didn’t want to admit to having nightmares. He didn’t want to admit that he’d dreamt of Garazeb screaming, thrashing in agony, while Alexsandr was tied down and unable to help. He didn’t want to admit that he’d dreamt of Thrawn and his Death Troopers, of that tool coming towards his face over and over again. Alexsandr pushed the last few dregs of rice around his plate, his appetite vanishing, a noticeable tremor setting in as he gripped his fork and knife. He set his utensils down before he could make a mess and added reluctantly, “Just some trouble sleeping. You know how it is.”

“And I know talkin’ about that stuff can help.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know.” Garazeb sighed. His chair creaked as he leaned forward and the table jolted as he folded his arms atop it. His gaze burned holes through Alexsandr, who tried not to fidget with the cuff of his sleeve. His voice softened. “I know all about bottlin’ things up, Sasha. I used to go out lookin’ for fights because I couldn’t handle how I was feelin’ after the fall of Lasan. Couldn’t think about it. Couldn’t talk about it. Didn’t even have someone _to_ talk to about it — all the people I’d ever loved were gone. I ended up in some sort of fight club in Hutt space, takin’ damage almost more often than I was givin’ it.”

Alexsandr swallowed thickly, the ache in his throat strengthening as he imagined it with painful ease. Garazeb, broken and bloody, tufts of that beautiful fur missing, lethal claws out and snarling as he faced off against one opponent after another. His tear ducts heated at the thought. Alexsandr was to blame for that pain or at least some of it.

“It was the lowest I’d ever been. I had nothin’ left except the pain I felt. I didn’t even care when some Imperial tracked me down. I didn’t care that he was goin’ to kill me.” Garazeb unfolded his arms without warning and reached across the table to capture one of his hands, holding it in a firm grip. One large thumb stroked across the back of his wrapped hand. “And then Kanan and Hera showed up and got me out of there. Gave me a home, a purpose. Helped me realise that I wasn’t alone, that I didn’t have to deal with what I was feelin’ alone. Made me feel like I could talk to them and lean on them.”

“Garazeb, I —”

“I’m not lookin’ for apologies,” Garazeb said quietly, his voice softer than he’d ever heard it before. “I’m just sayin’ that I understand how it feels to feel alone, to feel like I can’t open up, to feel like these awful feelings inside will eat at me until I die. And I’m also sayin’ that it doesn’t have to be like that. Not for either of us. Ya need an ear and I’m offerin’ to be one, if and when you’re ready, Sasha.”

Alexsandr inhaled raggedly, and suddenly, bowing his head to conceal the growing dampness of his blindfold. A spasm ran through his fingers before he pulled his hand free, his skin stinging as a claw scored across the back of his hand and the Lasat cursed under his breath. Alexsandr shoved his hands into his pockets, hiding them from view, shaking his head when Garazeb asked if he’d hurt him.

“C’mon.” Garazeb rose from his chair and came around the table, his hand gentle as he touched his shoulder. A small smile slipped into his voice. “I’m in the mood for a climb or somethin’. Ya comin’?”

Alexsandr directed an uncertain expression at Garazeb, aware that he wasn’t supposed to spend too much time out in the sun while still acclimatising. But he accepted the offer after a moment or two. It was better than talking about his nightmares, after all. And it was far better than imagining Garazeb in that fight club, under the hateful gaze of that nameless Imperial. It was better than stewing in the emotions coursing through him and making his hands shake.

Garazeb tidied their used ware away, passing them to the kitchen staff behind the counter, and then guided Alexsandr out into the open air. He guided him past various rebels and then past the treeline. Garazeb stopped not too far from the treeline and said brightly, “C’mon. Up ya get.

Flushing, Alexsandr did as instructed without argument and wrapped his arms around Garazeb as the Lasat crouched low. He swallowed a gasp when Garazeb gripped his thighs and bounced him up onto his back abruptly, giving him little to no warning. He clung to the Lasat as Garazeb started climbing, claws digging deep into the wood as those muscles propelled them higher and higher. His breath shook in his chest with each jolt of those muscles and his heart almost punched a hole through his ribs when one of the branches cracked beneath the press of one large foot. 

“Don’t worry; I won’t let ya fall.”

“I know.”

“Good.” Garazeb chuckled and Alexsandr couldn’t help tightening his grip as he felt the vibrations of that soft laugh through his own torso, flush as it was against that powerful back. A small sigh of relief escaped him when Garazeb stopped climbing, seeming satisfied with their new vantage point. Carefully, the Lasat arranged himself among the intertwining branches and then helped Alexsandr settle in front of him. His large hands remained a constant presence. “Ya doin’ alright?”

“Yes. I’m glad I can’t see how far up we are, though.”

Garazeb huffed a small laugh against the back of his neck and Alexsandr couldn’t help shivering, goosebumps rising down the length of his back. Something in his stomach tightened without warning, leaving him nervous and unsure. He couldn’t help remembering the words his sister said before, about how Garazeb looked at him while he couldn’t see, and a miniscule part of him hoped she might be right as a gentle thumb grazed his hip through his somewhat oversized jeans.

But he didn’t dare mention it. 

Eventually, Alexsandr settled against the Lasat with a small sigh of contentment instead and just listened to the sound of the jungle — to the distant sounds of woolamanders, stintarils, and whisper birds in the trees around them. Not to mention the runyips foraging in the underbrush below. Listening to the jungle around them was peaceful and knowing that Garazeb was a larger predator than several of the fauna on the planet was an immense comfort. Alexsandr didn’t have to stress about animals deciding the pair of them looked like lunch.

Alexsandr was close to dozing before Garazeb spoke again.

“I missed things like this the most.” Garazeb spoke quietly, so quietly, as though afraid his words might disturb the peace in the jungle around them. His large frame deflated around a sad sigh as Alexsandr woke up, his attention sharpening at once. “Things like climbin’, relaxin’ in the trees, listenin’ to the wild. It was a large part of who we were as a people.” 

“Tell me about it.” Alexsandr didn’t turn his head to speak. He didn’t want to risk disrupting the precarious balance he had in the tree. He brushed his fingertips against a smooth vambrace instead and hoped Garazeb would see the action for what it was: soft encouragement. “I’d...I’d like to know about Lasan. If that would be alright.” 

“If it wasn’t okay, I wouldn’t be talkin’.” Garazeb patted his hip. A small smile seeped into his voice as he spoke. “I was climbin’ before I was walkin’. Most Lasats were the same. Climbin’ was natural for us, instinctive. Ya couldn’t walk past a tree without seein’ one of us in the branches, loungin’, or sharpenin’ our claws, or harvestin’ loose bark for our gardens.”

“That sounds wonderful.” Alexsandr sighed with quiet longing, wondering what such a life might have been like. What it might have been like to have such luxury, such open access to trees and plants, and what it might have been like to be so carefree. “It wasn’t like that on Coruscant. We didn’t have a lot of trees, except in the richest parts of the planet. Gardens, trees, all things natural and pretty, all of that was viewed as a sign of wealth and status among Coruscanti.”

“Nature should be available to all. Coruscant sounds terrible.”

“It was,” Alexsandr answered with a startled laugh. “I’ve said that before.”

“True.” Garazeb chuckled behind him and Alexsandr couldn’t help luxuriating in the quiet rumble, the vibrations that rippled through his own torso. It was soothing. Eventually, Garazeb added quietly, “Childhood games happened in the trees, too. One of the most popular ones was to see how fast we could climb, how fast we could leap from tree to tree, and even how _far_ we could leap. To us, it was just fun and games, but to our parents and elders….it was an important part of our trainin’, an important part of learnin’ how to be a Lasat. It helped us hone our skills.”

“Your elders were smart to turn training into fun and games.”

“Yeah.” Garazeb leaned forward lightly, bringing his lips closer to his ear. “Some of them regretted it though. I spent half the time in the trees learnin’ how to stalk and pounce on unsuspecting guardsmen and nobles.”

“You didn’t get punished?”

“Nah.” Garazeb grinned against his ear. Alexsandr swallowed when he felt the hint of a fang brush against his bare skin and tried not to let his breath stutter, tried not to let heat pool in his gut or lower. Tried not to let his longing show. Alexsandr curled his fingers around his sleeves as Garazeb added brightly, “Captain of the Guard praised me and offered me an advanced trainin’ programme with the guardsmen. Youngest cadet in two centuries, I was. Started trainin’ for the Honour Guard when I was twelve.”

“Your parents must have been proud.”

“Parents didn’t know.” The grin slipped in an instant. Garazeb turned his face away, taking the warmth of his breath and the graze of his fang with him. His large frame tightened with the weight of words left unspoken. Alexsandr didn’t ask about those unspoken words, but listened to the ones that came next. “But Nan was proud of me. She and Chava took me out for dinner as a reward. I got to order whatever I wanted. No matter how expensive.”

“You must have been delighted.”

“I ordered the biggest, most expensive dish on the menu.” Garazeb turned his attention back to him and huffed a small laugh. “Didn’t manage to eat it all. Almost had to be rolled out of the restaurant and back to the house. No regrets, though.”

Alexsandr couldn’t help smiling, imagining Garazeb as a child. The thought of Garazeb having to be half-carried home because he’d stuffed himself with food made his heart clench in his chest. It was a sweet thought. The thought of that green gaze widening at the sight of his plate was even sweeter, especially when combined with the image of those expressive ears wiggling with his happiness and excitement. Alexsandr couldn’t help wishing he’d known Garazeb sooner, that he could have grown to be his friend at an earlier point in his life. 

How different things would be…

Alexsandr swallowed a sad sigh and started asking questions, prompting further discussion of Lasan. For two hours, he listened as Garazeb spoke about the weather, about the different shades of fur that could once be found among his people, about the rites of passage that all those who wished to serve their Queen faced. He listened as Garazeb described beautiful caves filled with kyber, lakes and rivers that glowed a soft purple when the sun hit the leaves in the trees, and the healing springs high in the mountains.

“Nan visited the springs often.” Garazeb sighed as he said the words, his breath ghosting against the back of his neck again. “She had a bad hip and the heat from the springs eased a lot of her pain. Made it easier to move around. You’d have liked them. One day, when all this war is over, I might go back there and see what can be salvaged. Ya could come and check out the springs.”

“I don’t think that would be wise,” Alexsandr answered quietly, unable to stop his shoulders from tensing at the idea. Carefully, he sat up, one hand braced against a strong knee to prevent himself from losing his balance. “I don’t think the other survivors would appreciate seeing me there. You’ve been welcoming, more so than I deserve, but I’d never ask the other survivors to tolerate me being there. It wouldn’t be right. Not after all the horrible things I’ve done.”

“You’re not that person now.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You saw what I did on Lothal.”

“That was different.”

“Why”, Alexsandr snapped. Anger bloomed behind his sternum. “Because he’s an Imperial?”

“No, because he tortured ya.”

“I’ve been trained to resist torture.”

Garazeb scoffed before growling, “That might be true, but ya aren’t immune. No one is immune to torture! Eventually, a person succumbs to the pain in some fashion. It happens and it’s nothin’ to be ashamed of.”

Large hands seized Alexsandr when he tried to put distance between them and almost slipped off the branch. Garazeb manhandled him abruptly, forcing him to face the Lasat. Alexsandr opened his mouth to snap a response and closed it again when those hands gentled less than a moment later. Soft fingers tucked a loose lock of his hair behind his ear with a tenderness that made his gut twist.

His heart threatened to punch a hole through his chest.

“What Thrawn and the other Imperials did makes all the difference,” Garazeb said quietly, his frustrated growl a distant memory, leaving softness in its wake. “Yer anger, yer hate, all of that was understandable under the circumstances. I stepped in because I didn’t want to watch ya slip back into the man ya were before. When we were on that moon, I saw yer current. Ya were almost overrun with poison from the Bogan. But now? You’re almost glowin’. I didn’t want ya to lose that. Not again. Not when ya worked so hard to get it back.”

Alexsandr swallowed thickly, croaking abruptly, “Dodonna thinks I should be trained.”

“I agree,” Garazeb answered simply, one large hand resting on his thigh. His thumb brushed against the base of his hip in a manner that attempted to be soothing, though it did nothing more than make his pulse race instead. “Yer emotions were understandable, but there is a reason we learn how to master them as we master our connection with the Ashla. You’d do well with trainin’.”

“I can’t.”

“Ya won’t. There’s a difference.” 

“ _You don’t understand_.”

“Then help me.”

“ _No_ ,” Alexsandr growled.

His blood pounding in his ears, Alexsandr did the first thing that came to mind when the hand on his thigh moved briefly, and threw himself over the edge of the branch to escape the conversation he refused to let continue. His stomach lurched as he plummeted several feet and Garazeb cursed overhead. A few moments later, two prehensile feet seized his arms and Alexsandr slammed into the trunk of the tree with his own momentum. A grunt of pain escaped him moments before a rough hand hauled him upwards, almost flush against that powerful torso as Garazeb growled dangerously, “What the _fuck_ do ya think you’re doin’?”

“Leaving,” Alexsandr answered waspishly, ignoring the hot breath ghosting across his face. 

“Do ya have a fuckin’ death wish?!”

“No!” Alexsandr thumped his chest with a curled fist. “I just wanted the conversation to end.”

“Karabast. Ya could’ve just _said_!”

“You were pushing!”

“Yeah. Well. Maybe ya need to be pushed! Ya wouldn’t even be here, if it wasn’t for me pushin’!”

“Well. Maybe you should have left me alone!”

A tense silence fell between them for one painful moment and then Garazeb said quietly, almost hesitantly, “Ya don’t mean that.”

“Life was easier when I didn’t have a disappointed Lasat glaring at me,” Alexsandr answered wearily, remembering the hours he’d lain awake in his Imperial bunk as the words Garazeb said to him bounced around his mind. Driving him to look for the answers to questions he’d never thought to ask before. Alexsandr drew in an uneven breath and rubbed his beard with a tired hand. “When I was working with the Empire, I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought the hardship I’d endured led me somewhere better; I was working with Wulff Yularen — a notable War Hero, someone I’d idolised when I was a cadet. I thought I was putting the skills I’d learned to good use and now all of that is gone. The man I idolised is a monster and he helped shape me into another one, and I was too privileged and too full of blind faith to see it.”

“Sasha…”

“I don’t have a purpose here, Garazeb. The Intelligence Division doesn’t need me now that I’m out of the Empire; I can’t offer them new information. What I had is now obsolete. I’m also a high-profile target and I would attract attention no matter where I went. And being blind doesn’t help matters at all. I can’t even pilot a damn starfighter,” Alexsandr continued quietly, cutting him off. He ignored the weight of the intense gaze boring through his face, ignored the sad rumble that vibrated through that immense torso as he spoke. He ignored the hand that gripped his shoulder, squeezing, holding him in place. “I feel useless. Sometimes I feel like I should have been left to die in that cell. As long as you and the others were safe, I wouldn’t have cared.”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s the truth. You wanted me to talk and now I’m talking, so at least listen to me. I know what people _want_ me to do here. I know that Jarrus would help train me, if I asked him. But I can’t do that and I mean it. I’m not like Cal or Jarrus, Garazeb; the connection I have with the Force isn’t a good one. It never was.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“You should.” Alexsandr turned his face away, an ache blooming in his chest as unwanted memories flashed through his mind. His voice dropped to a strained whisper as he forced himself to continue. “I pushed the connection down for a reason and I’d hoped I’d never have to acknowledge that connection again. But unforeseen circumstances forced me to make a choice between opening that connection and letting someone I care about be tortured. Really, it wasn’t a choice at all. I’d pick you every time.”

A soft noise escaped Garazeb.

A moment later, Alexsandr choked on a gasp as Garazeb gripped his chin with a gentle hand and nuzzled his face, rubbing against his beard. Something reminiscent of a purr rumbled up from that deep chest.

And then the Lasat jerked back like he’d been burned. 

“What the fuck was that?”

“Uh. S’nothin’. Just. A Lasat thing,” Garazeb babbled in a rush of almost incoherent words. “It doesn’t have to mean anythin’. Uh. Shit. I mean: _it doesn’t mean anythin’_. Fuck. Just forget it ever happened.”

Within moments, the two of them descended the tree in large, controlled bursts, and Alexsandr found himself standing alone in the jungle as Garazeb fled back to the base, crashing through the underbrush. Alexsandr listened to him go, his heart in his mouth and something soft twisting in his chest as his fingertips brushed against his beard.

It was still warm from the friction. 

A smile crept across his lips.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Hope y'all are doing ok this week!

Zeb gazed down at the man sleeping in the bunk opposite his and resisted the urge to reach out. He resisted the urge to respond to his fitful movements, resisted the urge to card his fingers through those uneven locks, to graze his claws against his scalp. He resisted the urge to climb into the bunk beside him and gather him close, to let him curl up against his chest. Zeb swallowed thickly, and turned away, his stomach twisting with discomfort.

It wasn’t fair.

It wasn’t fair to have these feelings. 

Zeb didn’t want them. He didn’t want the warmth that swelled in his chest whenever Sasha waited for him at the edge of the hangar. He didn’t want to feel the giddiness that threatened to escape him whenever Sasha laughed at one of his jokes, expression brightening, lips parting as his head tilted backwards with the force of his laugh. He didn’t want the heat that pooled in his gut when Sasha had leaned against him in that tree. Zeb didn’t want to want to be closer to Sasha.

He didn’t want to want to kiss him again.

_It wasn’t a kiss_ , Zeb told himself. _Not in his culture. He didn’t even know what it meant!_

_It is in yours_ , that small voice whispered at the back of his mind. _You know what it meant._

_Shut up_ , Zeb almost growled at himself and that voice at the back of his mind. The voice that told him he’d made a mistake when he fled from Sasha in the jungle, the voice that reminded him again and again of how natural it felt to feel Sasha against him. The voice that reminded him how good it felt to cradle that face in his hand and fuse their scents together, to rub his face against that messy, thickening beard. _It means nothing. I didn’t mean to do it._

Squaring his shoulders, Zeb took one last glance at Sasha before leaving their quarters and sealing the door behind him. He had more important things to do than stress over the not-kiss that happened in the jungle, over the bond that seemed to strengthen between them with each passing hour, each moment spent with each other.

_If it means nothing_ , the voice said softly, _then why are you avoiding him?_

Zeb growled and otherwise ignored the voice as he loped down the corridor, picking up speed as he began his morning run through the rebel complex. The weight of his bo-rifle on his back was a comfort. He passed Kanan as the Jedi turned the far corner, coming to ask Sasha to meditate with him for the nth time since he’d arrived on the base.

Kanan turned his head in his direction and flashed an understanding, sympathetic smile. As though he saw all of the turbulent emotions and thoughts coursing through him. And Zeb couldn’t help sighing, his shoulders deflating even as he kept moving, propelling himself past the Jedi.

Of course, Kanan knew about his struggles.

Kanan never missed a tick. His perceptive nature had just strengthened since he’d lost his sight on Malachor, since he’d given himself to the Ashla.

Growling quietly, Zeb picked up his pace and left his troubles behind him to focus on his run. 

* * *

_Alexsandr didn’t know where he was, but a glance through the tall windows gave him an immediate clue. His gut twisted with regret as familiar canopies of pink and blue and purple leaves danced in the breeze, framed between handsome buildings of pale stone. In the distance, a tall bell tower stood sentinel over the vast city, its shining bells still and silent._

_Lasan._

_He was on Lasan._

_Alexsandr moved closer to the window, yearning to see something that wasn’t possible: streets brimming with Lasats, warm and bright and alive. But he saw nothing, nothing but vacant streets and gardens with no one to tend them. There were no Lasats, no smiles and no laughter, no children running amok. No guardsmen elbowing each other and making jokes while out on their patrols. His heart twisted in his chest and Alexsandr turned away, covering his mouth._

_This was a dream._

_It had to be a dream._

_The last time Alexsandr had seen these streets, the buildings had been in pieces, the trees were burning, and the pavement was littered with bloodied corpses with vacant stares. The last time he’d seen these streets, he’d wanted to prove himself a capable warrior, a fire in his gut and an anger burning in his heart. The last time he’d seen these streets, he’d been the worst version of himself._

_Alexsandr shook his head sharply, crushing his lashes against his cheeks, wanting to wake up._

_“Your fear is such a beautiful thing,” whispered a voice, soft and familiar, and seductive._

_Alexsandr didn’t dare look at the man speaking, whispering into his ear, warm breath ghosting across his skin. Gentle fingertips grazed the back of his neck and goosebumps rose across the length of his spine, sending a shudder of distaste through him._

_“So exquisite. And mine,” whispered the voice, leaning in closer. A strong torso brushed against his arm. Lips grazed against his ear. “Mine from the beginning. Mine forever. You’ve known it all along.”_

_“Don’t listen to him.” The same voice spoke from a distance, but it was stronger, firmer, and full of quiet confidence. It was void of the seductive notes that chilled his bones and made his stomach twist with fear. Footsteps approached at a steady, unhurried pace. A firm hand found his shoulder and squeezed. “You have a choice. Our choices define who we are.”_

_Alexsandr turned his head immediately, lashes fluttering open to see himself dressed in robes of soft purple. The silver embroidered celestial patterns along the cuffs, hem, and the edge framing the parting of his robes shimmered with his movements. His mutton chops were neat and pristine. His hair was drawn back from his face and secured with a sleeping tooka piece, the tines pressing deep and his long, trimmed locks spilling down over strong shoulders. The wrapping of a familiar bo-rifle was drawn across the bridge of his nose and its twin tails hung beside his hair. A lightsaber with an ornate hilt hung from a leather belt secured across his waist._

_“I should’ve known you’d show up.”_

_Alexsandr snapped his attention in the other direction to see himself again. This figure was as different from the other as shadows were from the sunshine. He was an Inquisitor, his skin as pale as his clothes were deep and black. A lightsaber hung from a clip at his hip, the hilt unremarkable. His hair was short and tidy, slicked into place with gel. But what stood out the most were the glowing, electric yellow eyes that stared back at him. The components within whirred as his doppelganger sneered with malice and tilted his head._

_“Where the Bogan walks,” the other doppelganger said firmly, “so do I walk to meet it.”_

_“How predictable.”_

_“Leave.”_

_“What for,” the Bogan asked softly, voice losing its malice and turning to smooth silk. He stepped closer to Alexsandr, gentle fingertips teasing against his palm — as though his sinister doppelganger might lace their fingers together. “I’m not the one trespassing. I belong here. I’ve belonged here for a long time, ever since our dear Alexsandr first curled up inside his wardrobe to hide from those terrible, terrible sounds downstairs. Do you remember the nights we spent together, love? The nights I covered your ears and held you so close? Do you remember the promises I whispered to you? That I would take care of you? That one day, he would pay?”_

_“Shut up,” Alexsandr croaked immediately, wrenching his hand from his grasp. He took a step away, moving closer to the other, brighter version of himself. “Shut the fuck up. You didn’t take care of me!”_

_“I beg to differ,” the Bogan said. “Without me, you wouldn’t be alive. Without me, you’d have died long before the streets of Coruscant became our home. Without me, you’d never have survived the assault on Onderon. Without me, you wouldn’t have escaped that prison cell. Your love, your fear, for Garazeb drove our actions and brought him to us. You are together because of me!”_

_“Lies,” the other said calmly, his hand remaining a firm presence on his shoulder, catching his attention with a short squeeze. “Alexsandr, you are so much more than he thinks. You don’t need him. You never did. You just need to believe.”_

_“You know what I’ve done. What if he’s right?”_

_“The past is done. It can’t be changed.” His doppelganger directed an expression filled with such compassion and understanding at him, it was almost too hard to witness. “But the future is in our hands. Yours and mine. You just have to make the choice.”_

_“I don’t know if I can.”_

_“I know,” his doppelganger said softly, his hand sliding down to capture his in a firm grip. “You’ve been afraid for so long and it is hard to let go, but it must be done. Your fear, your hate and anger, feed the Bogan. The longer it festers, the harder he will be to ignore. You must learn to let go. You must learn to trust in our connection now.”_

_“This is touching,” the Bogan said coldly, drawing and igniting his lightsaber at both ends, its red glow casting a hideous light upon the stone around them. “But I can’t let it continue. Alexsandr is **mine**.” _

_His mouth twisted around a vicious snarl before the Bogan leapt at Alexsandr and his other doppelganger, his red blades blurring with the speed of his swing._

_The other shoved Alexsandr away, the blow invisible and powerful._

_Alexsandr hit the stone floor and slid across it rapidly, his heart in his mouth as the lighter version of himself whirled to avoid the arc of the red blade, summoning his own lightsaber from his belt and igniting it in an instant. Twin blades extended from each end of the hilt and burned a green so deep, it reminded him of the forests he’d seen on the holonet as a child._

_Purple and green._

_Garazeb._

_The name caught in his throat and lodged there._

_Alexsandr watched as both versions of himself collided forcefully, their lightsabers sparking. The Bogan snarled and the other responded with tranquillity, his calm confidence a soothing balm against such hate and anger. Over and over, the two of them fell apart and came together, the song of their lightsabers burning itself into his memories._

_The taunts, the wicked chuckles, that filled the air turned his stomach._

_It reminded him of the moment he met Garazeb, the moment he stepped forward and challenged the Lasat. It reminded him of the shock and pain he saw explode into being on that furry, handsome face. It reminded him of the roar of rage and anguish that Garazeb released before he’d charged into battle, determined to defeat Alexsandr, to take the bo-rifle back._

_It reminded him of the monster he’d been._

_The monster he still was._

_“You can be better,” his doppelganger said after slamming the Bogan into the wall with the Force, turning to face him for just a moment. Even with his locks in disarray, he still managed to appear calm and serene as he said determinedly, “You can choose to be better. Choose to be the man Lasan deserved. Trust in Kanan Jarrus. Trust in Garazeb Orrelios. You **will** find the path.”_

_The Bogan climbed to his feet and roared his rage, arcs of cold blue lightning crackling around his fingers._

_Alexsandr choked on his fear._

_“Let go,” his doppelganger said as the Bogan charged at him from behind. The tip of one dangerous blade burned through white stone, turning it molten. His doppelganger didn’t turn from Alexsandr, but spoke with a conviction that he almost didn’t recognise. “You’re stronger than he will ever be, Alexsandr. **Let go!** ”_

_The Bogan swung his blade and —_

Alexsandr woke with a shout of warning on his tongue, jerking upright as his chest heaved for breath. Cold sweat beaded across his face and his blood pounded in his ears as the blanket pooled around his waist. Alexsandr tossed the blanket aside and stumbled out of his bunk as his fingers rose to press against his temple. 

No.

It wasn’t his blood.

It was the door. Someone was knocking on the door. 

Chest still heaving, and his hair a mess, Alexsandr stumbled over to the door and slammed his palm against the control panel. The door slid open with a hiss and he didn’t have to ask who it was. It was the same person knocking on his door as it had been since he’d first had tea with Dodonna.

Kanan Jarrus.

“Up for some meditation this morning,” Jarrus asked with a familiar note of resignation.

“Yes.”

“Oh.” A moment of silence passed. “I wasn’t expecting the answer to change. You alright?”

“No,” Alexsandr croaked. “I think I’m going insane.”

“You weren’t insane to begin with?”

“I’m not sure I know the answer to that question.” Alexsandr couldn’t help choking on a small burst of manic laughter as he stepped back from the door and turned away, wringing his hands as he remembered the violent clash between the Bogan and his other doppelganger — what must have been the Ashla — in his dreams. He heard Jarrus step across the threshold behind him and the door slid shut with another hiss. Alone with the Jedi now, Alexsandr couldn’t help asking, his voice almost ragged with fear, “Why does the Bogan look like me?”

“The dark side of the Force is in all of us,” Jarrus answered quietly, his tone serious and concerned. “It can take whatever shape it wishes, whenever it wishes, depending on who it speaks to. You’ve seen it?”

“I had a dream.” Alexsandr turned to face Jarrus, knowing he looked both frightened and frightening without his blindfold in place, and knowing Jarrus would never even notice how he looked. It was safe to be barefaced in front of Jarrus. “There were two of them with me. The Bogan was one and there was another. It told me I had to let go, that I had to learn how to accept the training being offered to me. It was the light side of the Force, wasn’t it?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“It wouldn’t be wise to ignore it.”

“No,” Jarrus answered. Fabric rustled. Alexsandr heard him settle down on the floor, heard him shift to make himself comfortable. “When the Force speaks, it is best to listen. Sit with me and tell me about this dream.”

Alexsandr grabbed a pillow from his bunk and did as instructed. Where he’d been calm and collected while discussing his torture with Doctor Huzo, his voice shook as he told Jarrus about his dream. His connection to the Force terrified him in a manner that the torture he’d endured hadn’t. It terrified him right down to his core, to where the softest parts of him were hidden from the harsh world outside. Alexsandr spoke hurriedly, wanting to get it over with as soon as possible. 

“The dark side of the Force knows its grip is weakening,” Jarrus mused sometime later, a deep frown evident in his voice. “Its grip is at its weakest point. This is the reason for the rage, the seduction. The dark side is attempting to lure its servant back into its clutches. The light side stepped in to offer a warning. You are at another crossroad. So, what will it be?”

“I...I want to be better,” Alexsandr answered. “I want to be the man Lasan deserved.”

“Alright.” Alexsandr could almost hear the Jedi bowing his head in thought. “You’re new to this. I don’t expect the fear to die down immediately, so...here is what we’re going to do. You’re going to come out to the training field with me and we’ll train together. We won’t be using the Force. I want to focus on muscle. You’re a warrior; this will be the easiest method of meditation for now.”

“I assume we won’t be sparring…”

“No, no,” Jarrus said through a soft chuckle. “We won’t be sparring until being connected with the Force starts to feel natural. For now, we’ll just be running drills to help focus the mind and rebuild muscle strength. You’ve regained enough weight that running light drills will be beneficial.”

Alexsandr released a breath. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to train again. His heart thumping with a mixture of excitement and nerves, he got to his feet and fetched a fresh set of clothes from the small trunk at the end of his bed.

His selection of clothes was limited and for good reason.

The clothes he’d grown out of had been laundered and returned to the quartermaster, and a small selection of larger clothes had been given to replace them. Eventually, once his weight was stable, he’d be able to build a larger collection of clothes as needed.

Once he’d finished dressing, Alexsandr combed his hair and beard and secured his blindfold in place before following Jarrus out to the training field. Jarrus walked at a calm pace, allowing Alexsandr to keep up, but said little as the pair of them weaved through groups of chatting rebels.

The training field was quieter than he’d expected. It was far quieter than the mess, which was often bustling, and Alexsandr couldn’t help the small wave of relief that washed through him when he realised there’d be so few people to witness his training. After years of intensive training, resorting to running light drills was somewhat humiliating; the fewer witnesses, the better for his peace of mind. 

“For a while, we’ll use electrostaves,” Jarrus said as he came to a stop a few feet ahead of Alexsandr. His voice was calm and focused. Metal clinked and then Jarrus approached. “Your bo-rifle is a lot heavier than an electrostaff and I don’t want to put too much strain on those muscles for the time being.”

“Fine.” Alexsandr couldn’t help the stiff response. His hands twitched with the urge to wrap around his bo-rifle, to feel its familiar weight in his grasp, to feel that extension of himself. But he knew Jarrus had a point. His bo-rifle was much heavier than the electrostaff Jarrus pressed into his hands a moment later. “How are we doing this? I’m not sure how different the drills run at the temple were from what I learned when I was a cadet.”

“There wasn’t a lot of difference,” Jarrus assured him. 

Alexsandr released a small breath and nodded in understanding. Carefully, he felt along the short baton and pressed the button to extend the electrostaff to its full length. He didn’t bother setting a charge.

“Okay,” Jarrus said quietly, a small metallic sound indicating that he’d extended an electrostaff of his own. “I know it won’t feel comfortable for the time being, but take a few moments to focus on breathing and then open the connection with the Force.”

Alexsandr tensed. 

“You don’t have to open it all the way,” Jarrus assured him. “Just a crack will do.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise.”

“Trust me.”

_Trust Kanan Jarrus_ , growled the voice at the back of his mind. _That’s what the dream said!_

Alexsandr swallowed thickly, but released a breath a moment later. Trust Jarrus. He could do that much. He did as instructed and focused on his breathing, his grip on his electrostaff light and comfortable. He focused on the slow expansion of his chest and then held his breath for a moment or so before releasing it at a steady, calm pace. Alexsandr did this several times before reaching inside himself and cracking the door open. 

His spark didn’t rush him.

It didn’t explode into his veins, but whispered through the door like a loving promise. 

Slowly, his connection with his spark deepened to a level he was comfortable with. It allowed him to sense the charge sleeping in his electrostaff. It allowed him to see a hint of Jarrus, a faint shimmer indicating the circulation of his circuit. It gave him a vague impression of where Jarrus stood and how he moved.

Alexsandr turned slowly, letting his added senses take in the training field. True to what he’d heard earlier, there were few people on the training field — what appeared to be a Wookie, and three other individuals that couldn’t be identified with his current depth of perception. In the distance, Base One and the other smaller temples glowed the brightest of all. The temples were like moons in the darkness, filled to bursting with light and beauty, and Alexsandr couldn’t help gasping.

“I know,” said Jarrus, a note of understanding in his voice. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” Alexsandr agreed. He squared his shoulders. “But we have work to do.”

“That’s the spirit!”

Alexsandr moved a comfortable distance from Jarrus and gave himself a moment to familiarise himself with the weight of the weapon in his hands. How it pulled on his muscles. He hummed in satisfaction and then moved into position as he glanced at Jarrus, looking for guidance.

It wasn’t long until the two were moving, actions synchronised as Jarrus called out commands that were as familiar as breathing. It wasn’t long until the world fell away, leaving nothing but the command in his ear, the electrostaff in his hands, and the growing ache of his muscles as one moment bled into the next.

Heat bloomed across his skin.

Sweat dripped down his face to matt his beard. It soaked into his shirt and weakened his grip on his electrostaff until it slipped out of his hands during one of the drills. Metal thumped against the ground and his grip on his spark vanished abruptly, the door within snapping shut. 

Breathing hard and heavy, Alexsandr dropped to the ground with an exhausted grunt. He sprawled across the grass and panted up at the sky, feeling his sweat sticking his clothes to him in several uncomfortable places. But he was too tired to grimace. He ran a hand through his sweaty, dishevelled locks, and almost dislodged his blindfold in the process.

Jarrus sat down beside him and pressed a flask into his hand. 

With some difficulty, Alexsandr sat up and unscrewed the cap before taking a few controlled swigs of cool water. It was like a balm to his tongue and he couldn’t stop a small groan of relief from escaping him. Alexsandr screwed the cap back on and bowed his head with a tired sigh.

“I don’t think I can go again.”

“We did about an hour,” Jarrus answered with a light chuckle and then clapped him on the shoulder. “I was going to suggest we head back. You look like a shower, a nap, and a good meal would do some good. Doesn’t have to be in that order.”

“You might be right.”

“Come on.” Jarrus got to his feet and offered him a hand. “Let’s get going.” 

Alexsandr hesitated before accepting the offer, allowing the Jedi to help him up. He didn’t need the help, but the offer was appreciated all the same, considering their coloured past. Once he was standing, Alexsandr retrieved his fallen electrostaff and wiped it down before returning it to its baton length and placing it back on the weapons rack. 

Together, Alexsandr and Jarrus walked back to the temple.

* * *

His jaw clenching painfully, Thrawn took one arduous step after another, his hands like vices around the rails framing his exercise space. The cushions beneath his tender stumps didn’t provide much relief as his weight bore down on his new prosthetics. An unwelcome sweat broke out across his forehead.

But he kept walking.

These new prosthetics would not defeat him!

Grunting, Thrawn forced himself to turn around when he reached the end of the railing and continued in the other direction. He’d thrown the medical droid out of the rehabilitation room earlier, having grown irritated with the weight of that glowing, mechanical gaze watching his movements, scrutinising him. With no one watching, there was no one to witness his struggles or the sweat breaking out across his skin.

Thrawn didn’t want witnesses.

It was bad enough that word of his wounds had been sent to Chiss’ space. One of his personal Death Troopers, Waffle, seemed to have notions about who needed to be informed of what happened to him. A hiss of anger and frustration escaped him at the thought moments before he buckled and hit the padded mat beneath him. 

“You need to slow down.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Thrawn snapped immediately, his heart lurching in his chest at the sound of that familiar voice. So familiar, so cherished. And so unwanted at a time like this. “You have to go back.”

“Come with me.”

“I can’t.”

“You won’t.”

It wasn’t hard to hear the rising frustration in his voice. It wasn’t hard to imagine the heat rising in his face. Thrawn had witnessed it often enough that it was burned into his memories. But it was hard to stop himself from looking, from gazing at that handsome face and soft hair, from gazing at the man he loved.

The man he’d taken to bed what felt like a lifetime ago.

If Thrawn looked up, he’d be gone. 

Eli had a power over him that he’d granted few others and the man seemed to have little awareness of his power, which vexed Thrawn all the more. Subconsciously, the man had some inkling — enough to know that he’d needed to make the first move so long ago.

Thrawn kept his head bowed as memories of that first kiss flashed through his mind. The determined set of his face, the feel of his hands pushing, shoving Thrawn up against the nearest wall. And the hot press of his lips, sweet and intoxicating, and desperate. Thrawn squashed the shiver before it could ripple through his frame. 

He couldn’t afford to get wrapped up in such memories.

Eli would be leaving soon.

He had to.

Eli approached at a measured pace and crouched in front of him. A soft hand cradled his face and Thrawn didn’t have the will to pull away, to resist the gentle pressure that urged him to raise his head. The kiss that came was soft and tender, and filled with so much yearning, though Thrawn wasn’t certain which of them craved the contact more.

His own hand rose to tangle their fingers together. 

Eli kissed him for several long moments before withdrawing, whispering, “I missed you.”

“And I, you.”

“Come home with me,” Eli urged again. He brushed kisses across the ridge of one cheek and then the other, his touch gentle and possessive, more possessive than Thrawn could ever remember them being before. His time in Chiss’ space had served Eli well. “Or if you won’t come home, then at least come to bed with me.” 

“I can do that.”

Thrawn pressed their brows together for a single moment and then put some distance between himself and Eli as he shifted one of his prosthetic legs until the foot rested under him. He reached up and grabbed the railing, heaving himself up with his arm even as he pushed down with his leg, forcing himself back to his feet with a grunt of pain and a light stumble as his equilibrium shifted.

Eli was there to catch him with a quick arm around his waist.

Unintentionally, Thrawn found himself flashing back to an earlier time — when Eli would slide his arms around his waist for an altogether different reason. Reasons that would soon be revisited once the pair of them left the rehabilitation room and returned to his private room at the medical facility; the one Tarkin had sent him to. 

Eli walked beside him as Thrawn made the trek back to his hoverchair and continued to walk beside him through the corridors, heedless of the shrewd glances directed at them. His hand came to rest on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, an offer of support and love in the face of the distaste passing them in the corridors. Eli sealed the door once the pair of them were confined inside and smiled deeply, the expression brightening his entire face. 

With patience and deliberate care, Thrawn rose to his feet and looked down at his love, the man who’d wormed into his affections in such a short period of time. He didn’t have a chance to cradle his face before Eli was kissing him, sliding his arms around his shoulders and pressing close, letting him feel the full length of his warmth for the first time in so long. Thrawn couldn’t help sighing, sliding his arms around him in return and pulling him closer, almost crushing him against his chest. 

Eli whimpered against his lips and stepped back as Thrawn took a careful step forward.

It was time to reacquaint themselves. 

Rehabilitating could wait.

Revenge could wait.

Time spent with Eli was as precious as it was fleeting and Thrawn wasn’t going to squander it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Glad y'all liked the last chapter so much! 
> 
> Feel free to let me know what ye think of this one :D

“You and Zeb went on a date yesterday, I heard!”

“Whoever said that is a liar,” Alexsandr said with a scowl as Mila settled at his small table in the mess hall. He clung to the warmth of his cup of caf with both hands and glared down at the table, aware now that Garazeb was avoiding him after an awkward interaction in their shared quarters when Alexsandr returned from his training session with Jarrus. “You shouldn’t listen to rumours.”

“You didn’t sit in a tree with Zeb for over two hours then?”

“It wasn’t like that.” His grip tightened around his cup. “He missed Lasan. That’s all.”

“And the cure for that is spending time with someone that helped decimate Lasan?”

“Leave me alone.” Alexsandr abandoned his cup and rose from his chair, his hands shaking. He didn’t need reminders of what he’d done. He knew who he was, what he was. He didn’t need his sister rubbing it in. Not when he was doing his best to be better. “I’m not in the mood for this.”

“I’m sorry,” Mila said quietly, her tone sincere. She caught his wrist. “Did something happen?”

“Don’t pretend to care,” Alexsandr snapped. He wrenched his hand free. “You never did before.”

“Hey,” Mila snapped in return. “I might still be angry, but I never stopped caring!”

“You abandoned me!”

“I was a child! I was scared!”

“So was I,” Alexsandr answered harshly, his voice louder than intended. The mess hall went silent around him. It wasn’t long until he felt the curious gazes of other rebels resting on him. He stiffened at once. His hands curled into fists. His voice dropped to a sharp whisper. “You want to spend time together? Fine. But don’t pretend that joking about how evil I am is an acceptable pastime! What happened on Lasan isn’t a joke! Not to me and not to Garazeb!”

Alexsandr turned and fled the table, his heart pounding against his ribs as unwanted memories of the massacre flooded his mind. His lungs constricted sharply, with little warning, and continued to tighten until it threatened to rob him of his breath altogether. A ragged noise escaped him and then his lungs squeezed around that last lingering breath. 

He couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t —

A moment later, Alexsandr felt his stomach lurch as he tripped over something in his path and he hit the floor like a crate of durasteel, mocking laughter bubbling around him. The sudden blow shocked him out of his panic, forcing him to drag in a gasping breath even as his chest flared with pain. 

“Hey,” Mila shouted in outrage, her chair toppling backwards with a clatter. Within seconds, she was beside Alexsandr, crouching beside him and helping him to his knees, her hands softer and gentler than her voice as she spoke to the laughing rebels. “Do that to my brother again and I’ll break your fucking face!”

“I didn’t do anything. Maybe he should look where he’s going.”

Alexsandr didn’t have a chance to reach for his sister before Mila was on her feet and throwing herself at the Trandoshan who’d spoken. He flinched at the sound of a table and chairs crashing violently, the sound of ware shattering, and the too-familiar sound of flesh striking vulnerable flesh. Alexsandr retreated without thinking, scrambling backwards across the floor, fear and stress clawing up his gut as the sudden sound of a beating threatened to throw his frazzled mind into a different place, a much earlier time — a time when all he could do was curl up inside his wardrobe and beg for it to stop. 

It didn’t take Alexsandr long to realise that Mila wasn’t fighting just one Trandoshan, but a group of them. He dragged in one painful breath and then another, his attention riveted on the fight taking place in front of him and all around him as other rebels started circling, jeering and cheering in turn as the fight continued. A gasp choked out of him when his sister collided with him a few moments later, one of the Trandoshans having thrown her several feet.

Mila spat a curse around a mouthful of blood and was up again in seconds.

This time, however, she wasn’t alone.

A protective rage drove Alexsandr now, pushing him to his feet between one frantic heartbeat and the next. The door within him cracked open before he realised he’d reached for it and his senses ignited instantly, highlighting the group of Trandoshans and their crowd of raucous spectators. Snarling, Alexsandr grabbed the nearest bowl and hurled it at one of the Trandoshans bearing down on his sister, and felt a surge of dark satisfaction when it hit him in the face, splashing hot soup over his chest and shoulders. 

The injured Trandoshan fell back with a shriek of intense pain.

Alexsandr didn’t have a chance to smirk before someone grabbed him from behind and slammed him into a table, the tines of a fork stabbing into his upper arm. He wrenched the fork free and slammed it backwards, earning a startled shout of pain as it embedded into a thick thigh, sending his assailant stumbling backwards. 

Though he was still weakened from his imprisonment and his muscles were sore, instinct had Alexsandr fall back on his intensive combat training, on the hours and hours he’d once spent ensuring he could fight for his life. He used the momentum of the stumble to break their grip and whirl around to wrench their arm. It broke with a harsh crack and Alexsandr almost flinched at the familiar sound.

The fight continued for several long, horrible minutes.

Until Draven arrived and shouted at them until he was hoarse. 

Alexsandr reached for his sister with a shaking hand and was relieved when she welcomed his touch without hesitation. He let his spark go, his frame deflating, that protective rage fading as the sudden adrenaline crash left him exhausted. Her arm wrapped around him like it had so long ago, offering the love and support that he’d missed so much in the decades that followed her flight from their home on Coruscant. If his blindfold grew damp, no one else seemed to notice as the pair of them leaned into each other.

The injured Trandoshans were sent to the medbay, with furious promises that Draven would speak to them later. Alexsandr and his sister, however, were ordered to follow him at once and neither of them offered resistance, though he wasn’t sure either of them had the strength or will to offer resistance after such a violent fight.

It wasn’t long until the two of them sat opposite him in his office, the man simmering in silence for several long moments before snapping, “What the fuck just happened?”

“I tripped —”

“That asshole tripped him on purpose!”

“And that warrants a brawl?”

“I offered him a warning.” Mila spoke firmly, but dangerously, and Alexsandr could almost imagine the tension in her frame. The sharp gleam in her gaze. “If he’d been wise, he’d have heeded the warning. But he wasn’t and he didn’t. Instead he made demeaning remarks about my brother’s blindness. If someone had said such things about someone in your family, wouldn’t you lash out?”

“Perhaps,” Draven admitted after a pause. He sighed and leaned forward in his chair, the seat creaking beneath the shift of his weight. “But that doesn’t change the situation at hand. You should’ve filed a complaint with High Command. It would’ve been dealt with.”

“And how long would that take, Sir?” Mila leaned forward in her own chair, her voice earnest now as she continued. “Would it take a week? Or even a month? Would Sasha be hospitalised before something was done? I know the rebellion is busy, Sir, and I know small matters like this can slip under the radar. I can’t take the chance that something worse would happen to him in the meantime. At least now, people know he isn’t unsupported here.”

“Sir,” Alexsandr said quietly, “will we face a court martial for this?”

“No,” Draven said grudgingly, releasing another sigh. “But I will put this on record.”

“Of course, Sir. I’d expect nothing less.”

“You will be punished.”

“Of course —”

“Sir, that’s outrageous!”

“Shut up, Mila —”

“No, you shut up!”

“Shut up, the pair of you,” Draven groused loudly, silencing them both in an instant. “You will face punishment and so will the Trandoshans involved. The spectators will be spoken to and discouraged from such behaviour. It isn’t becoming. We’re supposed to fight the Empire, not each other.”

“I want a second opinion. I want to speak to Dodonna!”

“This isn’t a medical practice, Captain Kestis. Even so, Dodonna will agree with me,” Draven answered with a faint smile in his voice. He almost sounded amused. “I know he seems softer than me...but that paternal facade is just that. He can put his foot down as well as the rest of us.”

Mila huffed and opened her mouth to argue.

“You’ve been more than lenient with us,” Alexsandr interjected before she could speak as he leaned forward slightly, ignoring the flare of pain that spread across his chest. “We should’ve followed procedure. I apologise for the scene we caused. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m glad to see that someone here has a modicum of respect for procedure.” Draven leaned back in his chair and released a pleased sigh. “For the next two weeks, you will work in the armoury, overseeing the polishing and maintenance of our weapons.”

“Of course, Sir.”

“What about the Trandoshans,” Mila asked calmly, her voice having lost most of its edge.

“Trust me. Their punishment will be sufficient.”

“I’m sure it will be, Sir,” said Alexsandr, inclining his head as a mark of respect. “Is that all?”

“Yes. You can go.”

Alexsandr rose from his chair gingerly, his chest still smarting, knowing he’d have to get it looked at later. Just in case. He tugged at one of Mila’s loose locks gently, just as he might have done when he was a boy, and encouraged her to follow him. Alexsandr couldn’t stop a small smile from curling his lips when she didn’t resist or argue, choosing to follow him instead.

“Oh,” Draven said when the two of them reached the door, making them pause. His voice was warmer now, softer, more caring than Alexsandr had heard it before. “Fulcrum, I know I haven’t said so before, but I _am_ glad we were wrong. Your sacrifices for the rebellion won’t be forgotten.” 

“I’m no longer Fulcrum.”

“You’re no longer an operative,” Draven agreed. “But still a Fulcrum. That will never change.”

“I... appreciate the sentiment.” Alexsandr inclined his head again and shifted to attention before saluting the general. He departed a moment or so later, his sister following behind him in silence. “You know...I rather like Draven.”

“You would.” Mila snorted. “No one else does.”

“He appreciates rules and procedure. That’s a good thing for an officer.”

“I hate rules. Surprised you don’t.”

“Rules give me a sense of structure, order,” Alexsandr answered with a light shrug as the pair of them lingered in the corridor outside the office. “Honestly, I feel a bit lost without them.”

“Dad fucked us both up. Just differently, I guess.” Mila scuffed the floor with her boot. A beat of silence passed and then another before she spoke again. “Come on. We have some medkits on our ship; let’s get patched up.”

“Alright.”

Together, the two of them headed to the hangar, and Mila guided him over to one of the ships. It rested in the far corner, nearest the open wall that led out to the landing pad — where all the smaller fighter craft were kept when operational. Mila took his hand and guided it to the cool hull as she said quietly, “This is the _Maria_.” 

Something cracked inside his chest.

A moment later, he realised it was his heart.

Alexsandr said nothing for a moment or so, letting his fingers slide over the cool metal. That unexpected crack in his heart sent waves of familiar pain through his frame. He bowed his head and tipped it against the hull gently, swallowing around the lump that formed in his throat. It shouldn’t have surprised him to learn she’d named the ship after their mother, given their mother was the main source of warmth and protection during their childhood. There was no better means of honouring her memory, Alexsandr knew.

“I bet she’s beautiful.”

“She is,” Mila answered quietly, a small smile in her voice. She rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed lightly, sending a faint hint of warmth through him. It eased the pain coursing through him somewhat. “She’s an old girl — a VCX-150 — but she still stings like a bee. Come inside and get to know her, hm?” 

Alexsandr let Mila lead him up the ramp, his steps careful and his hand curled around her elbow, his sister offering some support on the unfamiliar surface. As the pair of them moved through the ship, Mila named the different sections and gave him an estimation of their dimensions, allowing him to get a clearer picture of the overall space around him. The finer details still escaped him...but perhaps he’d figure them out for himself in time, if Mila allowed him to visit the _Maria_ again in the future.

Eventually, Mila guided him to a bench in the galley, instructing him to take a seat as she went to retrieve one of the medkits. 

Alexsandr did so carefully, mindful of his chest. He didn’t think his ribs were broken again...but bruising alone was painful. He rested a hand just beneath his ribs, thumb rubbing a soothing circle absently, imitating the comfort he’d received from Garazeb from time to time. And then he paused as that thought struck him and his face warmed. He dropped his hand and rested it in his lap instead as a different kind of ache settled behind his sternum.

Alexsandr knew how he felt about the Lasat. He’d had a long time to come to terms with the emotions and longing afflicting him. He’d come to terms with the idea that just a hint of that crooked smile could brighten his entire day, even if he couldn’t see it. He’d come to terms with the fact that Garazeb smelled like the closest thing he’d had to a home in a long time. And he’d come to terms with the fact that he didn’t deserve the good things that Garazeb brought into his life. Alexsandr had come to accept that nothing would ever come of his affections for the Lasat.

Garazeb confused Alexsandr, however, now more than ever. Until the incident in the jungle, he’d been able to write off the gentle touches as affection between friends at best and just instinctive social behaviour at worst. He wasn’t sure what to make of his behaviour now. Part of him wanted to hope Garazeb felt the same way, but the speed with which he’d retreated and fled gave him pause.

Not to mention the subsequent hours of complete avoidance.

His mouth twisted. 

As pleasant as it had been to have Garazeb rub against his face, even without an ounce of warning, it still hurt like a bitch to have something he’d longed for dangled in front of him and then ripped from his reach.

Alexsandr bowed his head.

It shouldn’t hurt so much to know Garazeb didn’t want him or was too ashamed to allow himself to want him. It wasn’t something he hadn’t expected. And he was used to being alone, to holding himself at a distance from others, and had been content with his solitude until Garazeb came along. His life of solitude should have prepared him for this, for the endless ache in his chest whenever the Lasat entered the room. It should have prepared him for the nights he spent curled up under his blankets, unable to sleep even as Garazeb slept soundly, sprawled out across the other bunk. It should have prepared him for the cold emptiness beside him in the morning.

But it didn’t.

Years of loneliness and it still hadn’t prepared him.

“Hey,” Mila said quietly, rattling through the contents of the medkit as she returned. “You’re looking a little glum. Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

“Sure about that?” Mila set the medkit on the small table beside him and took his upper arm in hand with gentle care. There was a slight sting as she rubbed antiseptic over the puncture marks on his arm and Alexsandr grimaced. She pressed a bacta patch on his arm then and bound it with practiced ease. “I’m not bad at giving advice.”

“You just started a brawl for no reason.”

“One, it wasn’t without reason. You were in danger.” Mila ruffled his hair without warning, her fingers finding a familiar path through his messy, uneven hair despite the decades that passed since she’d last been so intimate with him. “Two, fighting and giving advice are not the same thing, at all. Three, giving advice is part of the job as the older sister.”

“I wasn’t in danger,” Alexsandr said. “I tripped. It wasn’t the end of the world.”

“Clearly, you and I have different definitions of danger.” Mila snorted and Alexsandr could almost hear her shaking her head in exasperation. “There’s no guarantee he’d have stopped there. You know that. I was pre-empting a situation that could’ve been a lot worse.”

Alexsandr said nothing, but pursed his lips and shook his head. He didn’t want to argue. He reached up and rested a gentle hand over his bandage instead and muttered his thanks, bowing his head to avoid the weight of her gaze. 

“Chest next.”

“I’ll have Doctor Huzo take a look later,” Alexsandr answered quietly, turning his head to further avoid his sister, his fingertips digging into the back of his arm. “You still need to be treated. Keep the rest of the supplies.”

Mila scrutinised him for several long moments before sighing in resignation.

A few moments later, Mila began guiding his hands to her broken skin and Alexsandr began treating her injuries, beginning with a gentle rub of antiseptic. Mila hissed through her teeth at each touch and he knew her injuries were a lot worse than his, larger, deeper, though perhaps not deep enough to need a visit to Doctor Huzo. Alexsandr finished with the careful placement of bacta patches and the binding of her arms and abdomen.

Alexsandr wasn’t certain how much time was spent on the _Maria_ before he heard someone calling his nickname, the voice deep and familiar, almost a bark of a command. His stomach twisted as recognition coursed through him. It was Garazeb, and he was angry, but there was also a deep note of concern in his voice. Alexsandr held himself still as Mila went to meet him and then brought him into the ship, right into the galley, and then vanished with a few muttered words.

Almost as soon as she was gone, Alexsandr found himself frowning deeply, mumbling, “I thought you were avoiding me.”

“I can keep avoidin’ ya, if ya prefer,” Garazeb groused in return. 

“.... No.”

“Then stop complainin’.” Garazeb came closer, his steps loud against the metal. Weighted. It reminded Alexsandr of just how large the Lasat was, how heavy, how powerful. It reminded him that Garazeb could crush him with overwhelming ease, but still treated him with such kindness and such tenderness. It reminded him of the longing inside him. He bowed his head a moment before Garazeb crouched in front of him and captured his chin with gentle fingers, encouraging him to tilt his head back up. “I heard what happened.”

“I’m fine,” Alexsandr said as a small smile curled his lips despite his better judgement. Still...he tried to keep the bittersweet longing from twisting his features as Garazeb gazed at him. He tried not to remember the friction of yesterday, the rub of that large cheek along his beard. He tried not to think of how the mere thought of that moment made his stomach twist with so much want. “You didn’t need to come looking for me.”

“Yeah. I did.” Garazeb wrapped his arms around him between one heartbeat and the next and squeezed warmly, almost cradling him against the large expanse of his chest. The soft fur of his neck tickled against his face and Alexsandr couldn’t help inhaling, couldn’t help pressing closer as his own tentative hands rose to rest against that powerful back. Muscles twitched beneath his touch and Alexsandr bit his lip, swallowing the soft noise that threatened to escape. “I’m sorry; I should’ve been there. I’d have thrown that bastard into a wall.”

Alexsandr couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped him as he drew back. Warm breath ghosted across his face in the process and he tried not to shiver, tried not to let how much it affected him show. He hesitated before retracting his hands, encouraging Garazeb to withdraw his arms in the same sweep, and then an awkwardness seemed to settle between them as one moment bled into another. 

Neither of them seemed to know what to say, what to do.

All the while, Garazeb remained crouched in front of him. Just looking at him.

“I wish I could see you,” Alexsandr blurted. His face warmed.

“Ya can. In a way,” Garazeb answered.

“It isn’t the same,” Alexsandr said quietly, his voice catching a little. His fingers brushed against soft fur before he realised what he’d done. His heart twisted in his chest as Garazeb stilled beneath the unexpected touch. Alexsandr dropped his hand almost immediately, the ghost of sensation lingering against his skin. His hand curled into a fist on his lap. “Anyway, I should get going. I’m...I’m quite tired after all that excitement.”

“Let me walk ya back to our room.”

“You don’t have to.” Alexsandr shook his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“I know, but I want to,” Garazeb replied softly, his voice an almost soothing rumble.

Alexsandr couldn’t help the small quirk of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He tipped his head in acceptance and rose from the bench even as Garazeb straightened to his full height in front of him. Rising to his feet brought him that much closer to the Lasat and to distract himself from the urge to press closer, Alexsandr slipped a hand around his elbow and gestured for Garazeb to lead him.

Usually, Alexsandr could walk without being so tactile with Garazeb, now that he’d grown more accustomed to the different sections of the rebel base, but the _Maria_ was an unfamiliar area. It would be a while more before he could traverse its interior with ease. Though being so close to the Lasat was a singular torture, it was still a gift that Alexsandr couldn’t help basking in as he breathed in one mouthful of that scent after another, letting it seep deep inside him.

Garazeb chatted about nothing at all as the pair of them vacated the _Maria_ and crossed the hangar together, but Alexsandr listened all the same. He listened to the rise and fall of his voice as his excitement dipped and climbed in turn. A fond smile curled his lips. Really, Garazeb could have been discussing the most banal things in the galaxy, and Alexsandr would still find it fascinating, charmed as he was with his growling voice. His enthusiasm for waffles alone made something clench behind his sternum with affection. 

The Lasat fell silent when the pair of them reached their quarters, the door sliding shut behind them with a familiar hiss.

“Thanks,” Alexsandr said quietly, his smile deepening. He extricated his hand reluctantly, and let it fall to his side, his fingers curling around the material of his trousers instead. He lingered near the door for a moment or so longer, not quite willing to be parted from him so soon. “I appreciated the escort.”

“No need to thank me. I... I like doin’ it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” The sound of claws whispering through fur followed and Alexsandr realised that Garazeb was nervous, awkward and uncomfortable — at odds with the warm and comforting presence he’d been just minutes earlier. “I like spendin’ time together.” 

“I’m glad. I feel the same.”

“Right.” Garazeb scratched his neck again. “I should get back to work.”

“Right.” Alexsandr nodded his head in acceptance and understanding. He retreated a step and then another, increasing the distance between himself and Garazeb, his smile softening. He almost told him to have a good day, but squashed the words when he realised how domestic it sounded. Quickly, he changed direction and asked quietly, “Are we listening to music tonight? I missed it last night.”

“Yeah. Yeah, sure,” Garazeb rushed to say, his awkwardness and discomfort still lingering, even though Alexsandr had guided them back to a more familiar topic of discussion. “Ya want to pick the tunes tonight?”

“You don’t mind?”

“Nah. Pick whatever!”

“Alright.” His smile brightened. “I’ll do that.”

“Alright.”

A beat of awkward silence passed and then a small bubble of laughter escaped Garazeb, the sound more like a chuckle, soft and endearing. Surprisingly, it also seemed a little giddy; it was almost infectious.

Someone else might have been swept up in it.

Alexsandr, however, wasn’t sure what to make of it.

“Right. Well.” He gestured towards his bunk with a vague hand. “I’m going to…”

“Of course. Uh. I’m goin’ now,” Garazeb said quickly, retreating rapidly, his words a rush of nerves as the bubble of laughter ebbed at last. His back bumped against the door, claws scraping against stone as he fumbled for the control panel. 

Alexsandr tilted his head. 

The door slid open with a sudden hiss and Alexsandr heard him stumbling, cursing as he reached out to catch his balance. His claws gouged into the metal frame with a shriek, earning a grimace from Alexsandr, even as he moved forward to help the Lasat.

Garazeb almost lost his balance altogether when Alexsandr touched his waist. 

“Sorry,” Alexsandr said quickly, his face heating, pulling his hand back at once.

“It’s fine!” After some awkward flailing, Garazeb was upright once more. “I’m fine!”

“Okay,” Alexsandr said slowly, doubtful. Concern washed through him. It was rare to hear Garazeb so awkward and discomfited and it unsettled him. But if Garazeb didn’t want to open up, there was nothing he could do to encourage him. He knew just how stubborn Garazeb could be. “Well. I’ll see you later then.”

Alexsandr reached for the control panel. 

Before he could close the door, however, Garazeb rushed back into the room and almost bowled him over, blurting, his words almost unintelligible before Alexsandr managed to figure out the awkward muddle, “I don’t think it was nothin’.”

“What?”

“The jungle. What happened. I... I don’t think it was nothin’.”

“You said to forget about it —”

“I’m not able to,” Garazeb said quietly, and he almost sounded like he was in pain. “It...it means somethin’ on Lasan. I can’t explain what it means now. I’m...I’m not ready, Sasha. I just...I need time. Can ya...can ya give me time? Please?”

Alexsandr swallowed thickly, his throat constricting around the sudden lump building there. His hands shook before he curled his fingers into fists at his sides. He couldn’t speak. All he could manage was a ragged breath and a dizzy, confused nod as his mind reeled with the words Garazeb had voiced. 

It meant something.

And then Garazeb was gone, the door sliding shut and separating him from the world outside as Alexsandr staggered back one step and then another. His heart tried to punch a hole through his chest and his blood pounded in his ears. His knees hit the edge of the bunk and he sat down immediately, his head still reeling. 

_It meant something_.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!!
> 
> If anyone is interested in seeing a (beginner's) painting I did of Ashla!Kallus from that dream sequence, you can check it out [here](https://www.instagram.com/p/CIpHGc6l79y/?utm_source=ig_web_copy_link)

Two months passed. Two months that Alexsandr and Garazeb spent dancing around each other, struggling to find some sense of normalcy, now that there was an acknowledgement between them. Two months of soft smiles and awkward shuffling, and small rumbling chuckles that made his toes curl. Two months of gentle ribbing from Mila and Taris, who seemed to have nothing better to do when not on missions with their partner, Zan. Two months of curling up in his bunk and directing his sightless attention at Garazeb snoring across the way, basking in the warmth blooming in his chest each night. Two months of Garazeb seizing him at odd moments and pulling him into quiet corners without warning, nuzzling his face in private and purring into his beard.

It was never in public.

Alexsandr didn’t mind the secrecy, the lack of public attention. Truthfully, he preferred to keep Garazeb to himself. Whatever this thing was, it was still tender and new, and didn’t have a name. But it was something he treasured all the same. It was something he kept buried deep in his core, where he kept all the things that mattered to him. 

In the same stretch of time, it soon became a routine to head out to the training field with Jarrus in the morning. It became a routine to crack the door between himself and his spark open and let it seep into his veins, to let his awareness sharpen and grow accustomed to having the Force in his grasp. It became a routine to move through familiar drills until his muscles ached and his borrowed electrostaff slipped from his grip.

Doctor Huzo began arranging appointments not long after his training started. Alexsandr didn’t argue with her. He attended each appointment that followed since he and Jarrus first stepped out on the training field together, letting her oversee his ongoing progress. He let her poke and prod him as much as she liked. He held himself still through each scan as she noted the changes in his bone strength. He performed each task she requested of him as she tested his muscle strength and flexibility, humming and making notes on her flimsi all the while. 

With each visit to the medbay, Alexsandr grew more confident in his health and abilities and left in higher spirits. It almost put a spring in his steps. Slowly, he started to feel more like his old self and began to add other exercises to his morning routine — a few light stretches, some lighter weights, and he even started to join Garazeb on a jog through the complex twice a week.

It was one such morning that found Alexsandr stumbling, one hand dropping to grab his thigh as his oldest break reminded him of its presence for the first time since he’d been freed from his frigid cell on Lothal. A quick and rough hand seized him before he hit the dirt and pulled him upright immediately, offering him support

Garazeb asked softly, “Are ya alright?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr answered quickly, out of breath. He gripped a furred bicep tightly, a small smile curling his lips despite the continued flare of pain through his thigh. “Just wasn’t expecting the sudden pain. I think the heat on this planet has spoiled me. Old injuries haven’t bothered me in a while. But I think I’ll have more pain to look forward to, now that I’m active again.”

“We should take a break.”

“I’ll take a break. You can keep going.”

“Nah. I could use a breather.”

Garazeb bumped his shoulder lightly, a grin slipping into his voice. He slipped an arm around Alexsandr, increasing his support. Pain flared brighter as Garazeb guided him a few feet and helped him settle down on a crate, the Lasat dropping down to sit beside his legs. Gentle hands found his thigh without warning and Alexsandr almost jumped out of his skin with surprise, a noise catching in his throat.

“Calm down.” Garazeb chuckled. “Yer virtue is safe with me.”

_I don’t want it to be safe_ , Alexsandr almost said before biting the words back. He gripped the edge of the crate with both hands, his nails scraping against the metal. His throat constricted as Garazeb began massaging gently, his large hands like brands through his sweatpants, powerful thumbs pressing deep into the muscle. It didn’t take long for a moan of relief and pleasure to escape him as the pain began to ease away, coaxed out of existence through that press of heat and gentle pressure. 

Garazeb paused.

“Sorry,” Alexsandr mumbled. His face burned with embarrassment.

“S’okay,” Garazeb muttered after a moment. His thumbs went back to work. “Glad it feels good.”

Alexsandr shifted his hands behind him to keep his balance as his frame started to mellow. He tipped his head back and relaxed into the touch fully, hiding his face and preventing sweat from continuing to soak into his blindfold in the same sweep. He sighed as Garazeb moved his hands from his thigh to his more recent breaks, following the path Alexsandr had shown him once, his tongue loosened with drink one evening.

Finally, Garazeb sat back on his haunches and asked quietly, “Feelin’ better?”

“Much.” Alexsandr offered him a small smile as he lifted his head. “I appreciate it.”

“S’nothin’.” A smile slid into that warm voice. His hands lingered. “You’d do the same for me.”

“I would. Not sure I’d be able to reach as deep, though.”

“It’s the thought that counts,” Garazeb answered with a soft chuckle.

The Lasat rose to his feet with a sigh and offered him a hand immediately, which Alexsandr took without hesitation. Together, the pair of them continued their jog, keeping their pace slow and steady, allowing Alexsandr to focus more attention on his old breaks and shift his weight as needed to compensate.

As soon as the pair of them returned to their quarters, Alexsandr removed his blindfold and splashed some cold water over his face before running a cloth over his skin. He listened to Garazeb muttering to himself as he rifled through his own belongings before heading back out for a shower in the communal refresher. Alexsandr listened to him go, his fingers drifting down to brush over his oldest break with tender fondness.

As frustrating as it was to have the old ache resurface now that he’d started training, Alexsandr found he couldn’t regret it. Not when it was a reminder of the first night he’d ever slept beside Garazeb, a reminder of that warmth and kindness. Not when it resulted in Garazeb offering to touch him with those gentle hands. 

Alexsandr shook his head and stretched to ease his muscles after his jog. A grunt escaped him as a few of his joints popped. He rolled his head and sat down on his bunk before reaching for his datapad. It opened as soon he said his passcode, an automated voice announcing:

_You Have One New Message From: Kanan Jarrus_. 

“Open message,” Alexsandr instructed as he ran his cloth over the back of his neck. He couldn’t help frowning; he hadn’t expected to receive a message from Jarrus, not when the pair would be meeting for training in a few minutes. 

The automated voice said:

_You’ve made great progress so far, so I’ve decided to change things up. Meet me on the second level of Base Two. Use the Force to find me, if you can. I’ll explain what we’re doing when you arrive._

Alexsandr sighed and rose from his bunk. He tossed the cloth aside and blindfolded himself all over again before heading out of his quarters, meandering through the base with a dim awareness of his surroundings. Just enough to avoid possible mishaps as he moved through the busier, more populated areas of Base One and out into the jungle. Fortunately, Base Two wasn’t too far away, though he was still sweating like a puffer pig when he arrived at the outskirts of the temple grounds. Alexsandr pushed a hand through his sweaty, dishevelled locks and climbed the old staircase, grumbling about Jarrus and his spur of the moment decisions.

Just as he’d said in his message, Jarrus was waiting in a moderate chamber on the second level. But he wasn’t alone. His padawan was with him. Alexsandr could sense the pair of them in the distance, the first calm and full of patience, the second eager and filled with an unexpected thirst.

Sensing the presence of Ezra Bridger discomfited him.

While the more experienced Jedi seemed capable of putting their coloured past behind him in favour of their training, Alexsandr wasn’t certain Bridger would be able to do the same. Not when Alexsandr had been one of the people to help subjugate his people. Just the thought of his past actions left a sour taste in his own mouth. Alexsandr couldn’t even begin to imagine how Bridger felt.

Finally, Alexsandr stepped into the chamber, leaving his connection open a crack.

“You took long enough to get here.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was a race, Jabba.”

“It wasn’t.” Alexsandr could almost hear the scowl in Jarrus’ voice. “Ezra is just impatient.”

“Whatever,” Bridger said with a huff. “Let’s get started.”

“Get _what_ started?”

“The second stage of your training,” Jarrus answered. “You’ve grown accustomed to being connected with the Force again. Now, we’re going to start using the Force to accomplish certain tasks.”

Alexsandr swallowed around a sudden lump, his throat constricting.

“The goal of today,” Jarrus continued gently, “is to deflect objects. Ezra will throw a stone. You will deflect it with the Force. If things go according to plan, no one should get hurt. I don’t expect it to work the first few times, so don’t be afraid to step aside.”

Alexsandr said nothing, but managed a stiff nod. A spasm ran through his fingers. Briefly, he entertained the thought of turning around and walking straight out of the temple, but he knew he couldn’t do that. He’d been given a warning from the Ashla and he wasn’t foolish enough to ignore it. Alexsandr released a breath and let the door within open a fraction or so wider than before, strengthening his senses.

It allowed him to sense more than just the Jedi standing in front of him and the temple surrounding him. It allowed him to sense the faint flutter of birds in the trees surrounding Base Two, and the bugs wriggling around in the underbrush. It even allowed him to detect the faint presence of a pile of stones beside Bridger, which would soon be hurled at him. Unaccustomed to having his senses so sharp, it took Alexsandr a few moments to centre himself.

Alexsandr moved further into the chamber, turning his back to one of the walls.

Bridger tracked his movements. 

Jarrus seated himself on a fallen pillar and asked quietly, “How does the Force appear to you?”

“Like electricity,” Alexsandr answered. Fear sparked inside him. “Sparks and circuits. Power.”

“Right.” Jarrus hummed in thought. “Focus on the Force, on how it feels as it moves. Imagine taking that power and shaping it. Imagine forming a shield with it and then raise that shield when Ezra starts to throw. If it works, the stone should bounce off the shield and change course. Take a moment to experiment and then we’ll get started. Alright?”

Alexsandr flexed his fingers for a moment and then muttered his agreement. Already, he could feel the tension in his muscles building, threatening to lock his limbs up tight. He knew that wasn’t a good sign. He’d come to understand that remaining calm was an essential part of learning how to wield the Force, if he wanted to avoid being the man he’d been in the Imperial complex on Lothal — the man Garazeb never wanted him to be. And right now, Alexsandr wasn’t calm.

His pulse raced. 

His breath stuttered in his chest.

His hands curled into fists.

Memories of that night flashed through his mind. The angry, hateful power at his grasp. The vindictive pleasure that coursed through him as Thrawn choked on nothing, fingers scrabbling to fend off an invisible grip. The hand clutching his calf and that soft voice begging, pleading with him to let it go. 

So close.

He’d been so close to becoming something akin to one of those Inquisitors, to becoming the Bogan that walked in his dreams. He’d been so close to seizing that power and ruining all the hard work he’d put in to changing sides, to becoming a better person — to becoming someone that Garazeb could respect and even care for.

If Garazeb hadn’t been there to stop him... 

_Stop it. Stop catastrophising_ , Alexsander told himself abruptly, pushing those thoughts and memories aside. His mouth twisted around a silent snarl. _You did let go of the power. You didn’t become the Bogan. You chose to be better that night. You can choose to be better again. You can do this, Sasha. You can do this. You can raise a shield. It’s no different than pressing a few buttons on a control panel._

Alexsandr counted seconds as he dragged in a breath. He held it in his chest for a moment and then exhaled. The tension in his frame eased marginally, but it was better than nothing. He turned his attention to his hands, to the glow of the circuit inside him. He watched the power move, circulating through his fingers and up his wrists, following his arms until it intensified across the expanse of his chest and pulsed in time with his heart. Alexsandr raised a hand slowly, palm facing away, and imagined gathering that power to his hands and pushed. 

Something in his abdomen clenched.

That painful pressure returned to throb in his head.

His knees almost buckled as that power rushed out of his palm, wild and shapeless.

Sweat broke out across his forehead as Alexsandr tried to keep the power under his grasp, tried to shape it in front of him. The vaguest shape of a glowing shield flickered through the darkness for a moment or so before dissipating entirely, and Alexsandr staggered back a step to brace a hand against one of the pillars still standing, his chest heaving.

“That was good for a first attempt! Well done!”

“Your nose is bleeding,” Bridger added.

Alexsandr dashed the back of his hand across his face, and felt the hot smear of blood across his skin. He grimaced in distaste and wiped it against the leg of his sweatpants. He spent a few moments catching his breath and then stepped forward again. He shook his hands out and then nodded at Jarrus and Bridger, knowing that he was as prepared as he’d ever be.

Bridger scooped up a stone from the pile, the sudden connection with his circuit igniting the dull glow of the stone into something fierce and powerful. He tossed it in his grasp for a moment before drawing his arm back and hurling the stone with precision.

Alexsandr raised his hand and pushed.

His shield winked in and out of existence between one heartbeat and the next.

The stone clocked Alexsandr in the forehead before he could duck.

Alexsandr staggered backwards with a pained curse, one hand shooting upwards and the other reaching out to catch his balance against the pillar once more. His forehead stung sharply, his fingers brushing through a thick line of blood. 

“Oops,” Bridger said. He sounded almost sheepish. “You were supposed to duck…”

“I would have, if I’d had time,” Alexsandr groused quietly, his fingers digging into the pillar as his equilibrium shifted without warning, sending a wave of nausea up through his gut. He moved his hand from his forehead to his belly, fingers clawing at the loose fabric of his shirt. Alexsandr spent a moment battling the nausea before adding, “The speed of that stone was unnatural.”

“I think we’re going to finish up for today,” said Jarrus.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Alexsandr snapped. “I’m fine. It was just a stone.”

“You have a mild concussion. I wouldn’t call that fine.”

“You can’t know that.” Alexsandr straightened at once, feeling more indignant than he’d been in some time. He clamped down on the wobbling of his knees before he embarrassed himself. He swallowed a third wave of nausea and continued forcefully, “You’re not a doctor.”

“You’re close enough to barfing that I can almost smell the vomit from here,” Bridger said.

Throwing one scathing expression at Bridger, Alexsandr stormed out of the chamber without responding, and stumbled down the stairs a few moments later, fuming with anger despite the nausea still churning inside him. He couldn’t believe the nerve of those two! He’d dealt with far worse than a stone to the face in his lifetime. He’d endured seven months of torture and he’d survived to tell the tale! That was no simple feat! And Jarrus was treating him like...like some sort of weakling!

Pain shot through his face and neck from clenching his jaw so tight.

Crescents of pain ignited across his palms.

Alexsandr was almost across the landing pad of Base One when someone called his name in surprised concern and caught his arm in a firm grip. Recognition alone kept him from lashing out with a curled fist.

Dodonna.

“General.”

“Alexsandr,” Dodonna said again quietly, ignoring the formal address, “who did this?”

“It was a mishap in training, Sir,” Alexsandr replied. His anger dropped to a soft simmer, aware that the older rebel didn’t deserve his ire. It wasn’t Dodonna that saw him as a weakling, after all. Dodonna was just doing his job as a superior officer. “Nothing more.”

“I see.” A beat of silence passed. “Come with me.”

Alexsandr didn’t argue, opting to follow the General to his office instead. The office was familiar now, almost as familiar as his own quarters or the path to the mess hall. He’d visited it often enough — with _and_ without a guide to escort him — over the past few months. Alexsandr let the door within slip closed as he sank into his usual chair and wasn’t surprised when he heard the clinking of a spoon against glass a few minutes later. 

“Here,” Dodonna said kindly, “have some tea. It might soothe that temper.”

Alexsandr said nothing, but tipped his head in acquiescence, swallowing a grimace as he felt blood soaking into his blindfold. He listened to the older rebel pottering around his office and was surprised when Dodonna came around the desk without a word of warning, pressing a case into one hand and something soft into the other. Alexsandr tilted his head in question.

“It’s a medkit and a sleep mask.” Dodonna settled into his chair at the other side of his desk at last. Fabric rustled as he leaned back. A note of fondness filtered into his voice and Alexsandr couldn’t help the small wave of fondness that rose in his own chest in return as Dodonna added quietly, “You can borrow the mask until the blindfold is laundered.”

Alexsandr bowed his head in unspoken gratitude, his hand tightening around the sleep mask for a moment before he set it on the desk in front of him. He spent the next few minutes sitting in silence, cleaning his face with care and tending to the gash on his forehead. It wasn’t long until he’d applied a bacta strip and wrapped a small bandage around his head.

“So, aside from this mishap, how is training coming along?”

“I don’t know.”

Dodonna sat in silence, waiting, though not pushing. He never pushed.

Alexsandr sighed and shook his head. He ignored another faint wave of nausea — dimmer than the last. He put the torn packaging from the medkit into the waste basket under the desk and put the bloodied blindfold into the deep pocket of his sweatpants. He then slipped the sleep mask on before reaching for his tea. He cradled the cool glass in his hands for a moment before adding softly, “I thought I was making progress, but then Jarrus introduced something new and now I’m not so sure.”

“You’re a capable student. It makes sense that he’d want to move to the next stage.”

Alexsandr couldn’t help snorting, his hands tightening around his glass of tea. 

“You don’t agree?”

“He stopped our session after five minutes.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m not a weakling,” Alexsandr grumbled almost to himself.

“No, far from it. But this isn’t the Empire, Alexsandr,” Dodonna answered quietly, a small frown in his voice. “You don’t _have_ to keep working through the pain when there are other options available. Honestly, we’d prefer our rebels to take the time to heal. We all need to be in fighting condition and ignoring the needs of our bodies won’t help us do that. Kanan made the right choice. I’d have done the same.”

Alexsandr frowned down at his tea and said nothing, his lips pursing. He couldn’t help feeling somewhat wrong-footed. A small part of him had hoped Dodonna would agree with him...but he knew now that it was just wishful thinking. Alexsandr huffed and sipped his tea, letting the chill slide down his throat.

Eventually, Alexsandr admitted to himself that his head hurt — more now that the adrenaline from his fear and anger had worn off — and that head injuries tended to bleed a lot more than other injuries. He felt a little lightheaded after his stomp back through the jungle and his stomach still hadn’t settled. But the tea was helping somewhat. Silently, Alexsandr conceded that perhaps Jarrus was right.

“I suppose,” Alexsandr said after a few moments of silence, “I just feel like I need to be doing something, like I need to earn the right to be here. I know I was an operative before, but I was out of action for over seven months, and now that I’m so much closer to being cleared for duty, I feel like I need to be prepared. I don’t want to let them down when I join the _Ghost_.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Not for certain. But I have a hunch.” Dodonna leaned forward in his seat with an audible creak and a rustle. “I’ve been around a long time, Alexsandr, and I’ve worked with a number of Jedi masters and their students in the past. One thing I’ve noticed is that padawans tend to learn better on the job. Training helps, of course, but the most important lessons happen out in the field. Whatever the issue is, you’ll get past it.”

Alexsandr focused his attention on the glass in his hands. He focused on the condensation tickling his palms. He focused on the pleasant chill winding up through his wrists. He couldn’t stop a faint smile from curling his lips. It was strange, but hearing the encouragement from the elder officer somehow made it easier to swallow his failure to deflect the stone.

“You’re a lot more encouraging than Yularen was,” Alexsandr said softly, his voice catching at the mention of his old mentor — the man he’d once idolised. The man whose approval he’d been so desperate to earn as a cadet and later as a novice ISB agent. The man whose disappointment had been so crushing in the wake of Onderon. “He didn’t forgive failure often.”

“No,” Dodonna agreed. “It was one of his greatest flaws.”

“You knew him?”

“Wulff and I were...close,” Dodonna answered slowly, a slight hesitation in his voice. An emotion Alexsandr couldn’t quite decipher underscored his words, but it became clearer as Dodonna continued. “I still miss him at times, but being on different sides of a war makes it difficult to maintain connections — even the ones that matter most. I had to cut all ties when I defected.”

“I’m sorry; I didn’t know. He...he never mentioned…”

“He wouldn’t. Letting me escape wasn’t a proud moment for him.” Dodonna rose from behind his desk and moved away, opening a cabinet and rifling through its contents. He returned a few moments later and slid something across the desk. “I commissioned this relief from Captain Orrelios. Sometimes, I look at it and remember the moment Wulff let me go, and I wonder how different things would be, if I’d managed to convince him to come with me.”

Alexsandr dried his palms against his sweatpants before picking up the relief. He couldn’t see the carving, but it was impossible to forget the man he’d once idolised. He ran his fingers over the grooves, imagining his mentor as the hero he’d once been when defending the Republic from the Separatists. Before the Empire. Before it had all gone wrong. Finally, Alexsandr raised his head and said quietly, “Leaving him must have been difficult.”

“It was one of the hardest decisions I’ve ever made.” 

“Is that the reason for hiding the relief in a cabinet?”

“No. I just don’t think the others would approve.”

“I see,” Alexsandr answered softly, and he did. He understood the need to hide something important from his colleagues too well. He’d kept his meteorite to himself when he’d returned to the _Relentless_ , after all. He hadn’t shown it to a single soul — not even the droids that would come to clean his quarters. As soon as he’d heard someone coming, he’d hidden the meteorite in a password-protected cupboard. He’d kept his conflicted feelings for Garazeb Orrelios to himself. Even before he’d made the decision to turn against the Empire, Alexsandr had known that showing the slightest hint of admiration or respect for the Lasat would have been a death sentence.

Alexsandr and Dodonna fell silent. The silence stretching between them was heavy, burdened with a sense of mutual understanding, and neither of them seemed intent on breaking it. No one spoke again until Alexsandr finished his tea and set his glass down with a soft clink.

“I should go. I have a Jedi to apologise to, I think.”

“Of course,” Dodonna answered easily, a sad smile lingering in his voice.

Alexsandr rose to his feet and headed for the door.

“Alexsandr,” Dodonna said suddenly, but quietly, catching his attention in an instant. “Our value doesn’t hinge on how hard we work or what we can do for the cause. Don’t underestimate the importance of just being here to welcome someone home from a mission. A lot of us don’t have that. So…just...be kinder to yourself. You’re important as you are.”

Alexsandr said nothing, but couldn’t stop his heart from clenching in his chest as thoughts of Garazeb burst into his mind without warning. Memories of the Lasat loping towards him after a mission and gathering him close to his side. Memories of the warm drape of his powerful arm across his shoulders. Memories of rough hands seizing him and dragging him behind a heap of crates to nuzzle into his beard with enough enthusiasm to make Alexsandr shiver, his own fingers curling around a furred bicep or fisting that familiar battlesuit as he struggled to contain the overwhelming urge to kiss the Lasat. Memories of that crooked smile pressing against his face. His hand trembled where it hovered over the control panel for a moment and then he pressed the button to let himself out.

His heart warm and fuzzy, Alexsandr headed for the hangar, allowing the door within to slip open as he neared the bustling space. Jarrus was right where he’d expected him to be: on the _Ghost_. With a light spring in his step, Alexsandr crossed the hangar, darting around pilots and mechanics with practiced ease, and caught Jarrus just before he reached the ladder that led deeper into the ship.

Jarrus paused and turned before Alexsandr even opened his mouth.

“Kallus,” Jarrus said with some shock. “This is an interesting surprise.”

“Yes. Well. You deserve an apology,” Alexsandr answered. He hesitated at the base of the ramp for a moment before approaching, his boots thumping against the metal. “I was out of line earlier. You’re the mentor. I’m the student. Your judgement should be respected.”

“I’m sorry, too. Your thoughts are just as important.” Something akin to a smile slipped into Jarrus’ voice. “Next time, we’ll discuss it together before making a decision like that. I’m so used to dealing with the kids that I forget to pause sometimes.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“I’m about to make some lunch. You want to join us?” 

“Us?”

“Hera and I.” Jarrus chuckled. “Rex is on a mission with his commandos and Ezra is gallivanting with some pilots, so neither of them will be joining us.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“You wouldn’t be. We’re used to having a ship full of people! Having quiet lunches just feels weird.” Jarrus offered him a warmer smile. “You’ll be part of our crew soon enough. Might as well start getting used to the idea now.”

“Alright.” Alexsandr swallowed a small wave of nerves. His palms broke out in a light sweat. He hadn’t been aboard the _Ghost_ since their escape from Lothal. Since he woke up with his face buried in the comforting scent of Garazeb. Alexsandr reached up and tucked a dishevelled lock of his hair behind his ear, flicking his attention over his shoulder as he heard a familiar booming laugh in the distance briefly, before focusing his attention on Jarrus again. “Will Garazeb be coming? Usually, he and I have lunch together.”

Jarrus tilted his head and said quietly, “I guess he is now. I’ll send a message to his datapad.”

His nerves didn’t abate at the assurance that Jarrus would contact Garazeb. If anything, his nerves grew worse. He and Garazeb dined together regularly, but it would be interesting — and perhaps stressful — to share that precious time with Hera and Jarrus, given how important each of them was to the Lasat. Alexsandr brushed his damp palms against his sweatpants, feeling underdressed for the occasion and unkempt.

A large part of him wanted to run back to his quarters, have a quick shower, and change into something presentable. Or as presentable as he could manage, given that none of his clothes from the quartermaster quite fit. It was all a size or two too big for him. But he knew that doing those things with such haste would be too obvious. Alexsandr knew that Hera and Jarrus would be suspicious.

It was just lunch!

It didn’t require him to look like he was meeting a partner’s parents for the first time.

But he wanted to look his best all the same.

But Hera and Jarrus had seen him at his worst after Lothal.

Alexsandr chewed his lip as indecision plagued him. 

Jarrus studied him for a moment or so before turning and climbing the ladder without another word. The Jedi headed deeper into the ship, beckoning him to follow with a wave of his hand.

Alexsandr hesitated where he stood for a long moment and then released a tremulous breath before mustering his courage and telling himself that it was just lunch once more. He seized the ladder with both hands and followed in his wake quickly, but carefully, the rungs unfamiliar beneath his boots.

Chopper warbled an enthusiastic greeting at him from somewhere in the distance and Alexsandr smiled at the warm welcome, some of his nerves dissipating a little. He patted his familiar dome when he neared the old astromech and Chopper asked what happened to his head.

“Your nephew threw a stone at me. I failed to duck.”

Chopper released a maniacal laugh and wheeled after him as Alexsandr continued to follow Jarrus deeper into the ship, warbling in binary, _You need to get revenge on him when he’s distracted. I could help with that. Ezra has fallen victim to countless pranks in the past. The kid never learns._

Alexsandr laughed and said fondly, “You’re incorrigible.”

_If incorrigible is another word for genius, then yes. I am._

“Never change, Chop.” Alexsandr patted his dome again. He couldn’t help the surge of warmth through his chest. With Chopper in tow, the prospect of lunch with Hera and Jarrus didn’t seem so daunting, so stressful. “Never change.”

_Why change perfection?_

With another maniacal burst of laughter, Chopper wheeled ahead of him and Alexsandr was left to laugh and bring up the rear.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later update than usual, but here it is!
> 
> I look forward to hearing what y'all think!

Cleared.

He’d been cleared.

Alexsandr sank down on one of the beds in the medbay, overcome with emotion as Doctor Huzo patted him on the shoulder and returned to her office, giving him a moment to process the news. A small laugh choked out of him when Chopper bumped his leg in excitement. Alexsandr reached down to pat his dome and said thickly, “Me too, Chop. I can’t believe it.”

_I’ll let the boss know_ , Chopper wubbed at him.

The boss. 

Hera.

His boss now, Alexsandr realised. Another wave of emotion washed through him and he surged off the bed immediately, darting to the door with a few quick strides as Chopper wheeled after him. His spark crackled through his circuit in response to his emotions and he’d never felt so alive. It fuelled him as he sprinted to the hangar, pushing him a fraction past his usual speed and propelling him forward.

Hera was just descending the ramp when Alexsandr arrived at the foot.

“Reporting for duty, Hera.” 

“Congratulations, Alexsandr,” Hera said brightly, her lekku twitching as Alexsandr let his connection fade to a low thrum. She welcomed him aboard the _Ghost_ as she had on several occasions over the last two weeks, ever since the first time Jarrus invited him to join them for lunch. “And just in time too. We’re being sent to Dennogra to pick up some intel.”

Alexsandr couldn’t stop a nervous, but excited grin from blooming on his face as the three of them moved deeper into the ship. A large part of him was terrified of leaving the base, of leaving the now-familiar sense of safety, of leaving the last scrap of his family, but another part of him couldn’t wait. That part of him craved to hold his bo-rifle again. It craved to work beside Garazeb and earn his keep. Alexsandr released a breath when the glow of the Lasat in question loomed into being, emerging from his room with something clutched in his grasp. 

And for the first time, Alexsandr saw his bo-rifle as it was meant to be seen.

His bo-rifle carried a warm amber glow that pulsed as he approached — as though it were reaching out for him. A soft whisper of sound filled his consciousness, clear and haunting, and it took a few moments for Alexsandr to realise that it was the kyber crystal within. 

His breath caught in his chest. 

“I know the feelin’,” Garazeb said quietly, a smile in his voice, as Hera and Chopper slipped past him and continued toward the bridge, leaving the pair of them alone together. “Seein’ a bo-rifle like that for the first time is amazin’.”

“It’s beautiful.” Alexsandr reached out and then paused as hesitation flickered through him. He remembered the shame and guilt that filled him when Thrawn took it as a trophy, when he used it to taunt Garazeb on Atollon. Alexsandr curled his fingers around nothing and pulled his hand back. “You should keep it. I...I failed to protect it. Before. I don’t deserve to wield it.”

“Ya earned this,” Garazeb answered with more force than he’d expected. He stepped closer and almost loomed over Alexsandr, the bo-rifle warm and inviting between them. “And I’d prefer to see it in the hands of a rebel than sittin’ idle, forgotten and gatherin’ dust. Honour its previous owner and use it to help take down the Empire.”

Alexsandr swallowed and reached out to wrap his hands around the weapon. His breath caught again as tendrils of warm amber reached out and tangled with tendrils from his own glow, tips winding around each other and sparking like a hot-wired speeder. Warmth flowed through him as that amber continued to climb up his arm and become a part of him. And he realised this was what had happened all along, whenever he wielded his bo-rifle and it felt like an extension of himself. This was what he’d felt without realising it. A soft burst of startled laughter escaped Alexsandr and he tilted his head back to look at Garazeb, overcome. 

Alexsandr was hugging the Lasat before he realised he’d moved. Garazeb staggered back from the sudden force as Alexsandr buried his face in his shoulder, arms thrown around his neck and his bo-rifle pressed against his back. A moment of hesitation passed and then large arms wrapped around him in return. Garazeb held him close. Alexsandr sighed into the embrace, a smile curling his lips, as warm fur enveloped him with ease.

A moment or so passed before Alexsandr withdrew a little, one hand sliding to rest on his shoulder, the other falling to hold his bo-rifle at his side. He kissed a furred cheek without thinking and then stilled as Garazeb froze for several heartbeats. His heart jumped into his throat and then started pounding as one large hand cupped his jaw, holding him still as Garazeb brushed a kiss against his cheek in return and released a soft chuckle filled with warmth. 

It was the barest whisper of a kiss.

But it threatened to make his heart explode.

“Garazeb, I…”

Someone coughed.

Garazeb almost jumped out of his skin. He jerked his hand back as though he’d been burned and left abruptly, taking his warmth with him. 

Alexsandr stood stiffly, his hand cramping as he gripped his bo-rifle. Pain shot through his tendons as he felt his knuckles whiten with strain. He swallowed the words he’d almost said and moved away, putting as much distance between himself and the person who’d coughed as he could. He settled at the dejarik table and closed his connection completely, letting his awareness fade. Alexsandr didn’t want to know who’d interrupted his moment with Garazeb; he didn’t want to know who’d driven the Lasat away, knowing he’d lose his temper if he learned who it was. 

Alexsandr held his bo-rifle close to his chest. 

He didn’t move until the encroaching footsteps disappeared. 

And then he bowed his head until he felt cool metal against his forehead. A miasma of emotion churned through him as he realised what had happened just a few moments earlier. He’d kissed Garazeb! And Garazeb had kissed him back! His tear ducts heated as he remembered the faint brush of those soft lips against his skin and he dragged in a ragged breath. Somehow, that soft kiss felt even more intimate than the affectionate nuzzles Garazeb had given him since that afternoon in the jungle, though those nuzzles were tender in their own right.

Slowly, things were progressing between them and the thought made his heart swell in his chest. For so long, he’d thought Garazeb could never care for him in such a way, and now the Lasat was proving him wrong with each tender interaction.

A rush of giddy, almost unquenchable laughter escaped him.

Alexsandr reached up and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, unable to stop the smile that made itself at home on his face. His cheeks hurt from the force of it. His stomach fluttered. His fingers flexed around his bo-rifle and he knew he’d never leave the weapon out of his reach again. Not when Garazeb chose to trust him with it. Alexsandr waited until he was certain that no one was coming before allowing his connection to open again and searching for Garazeb.

The Lasat was back in his room.

Hiding.

His smile softening, Alexsandr headed to the door and knocked. He sensed Garazeb raising his head. He sensed him hesitate, sensed him twitch as though he’d rise to his feet before withdrawing, returning his attention to the item in his hands. Alexsandr waited a few moments before brushing his fingertips over the control panel and letting himself inside, allowing the door to slide closed behind him.

“What? Someone need me for somethin’?”

“No,” Alexsandr answered softly, setting his bo-rifle down beside the door. He closed the distance between them and then sat down carefully, their thighs brushing against each other. “I just came to make sure things were alright. After we were interrupted.”

“I’m fine.” Garazeb stiffened beside him. The bright glow of his large hands shifted and hid the item in his grasp from Alexsandr, from his senses, stuffing it under the pillow. “I just...wasn’t expectin’ someone to interrupt us, s’all. I’ve never interrupted someone like that.”

“You have manners,” Alexsandr answered with a small smile. Slowly, he reached out and captured one of those large hands in his, letting their fingers interlock. “Some people on this ship don’t.”

Garazeb released a small huff of laughter, but the glow of his head tilted and Alexsandr knew the Lasat was staring at their joined hands. Still smiling, Alexsandr let his thumb graze across one large knuckle, his stomach fluttering as his skin brushed against the leathery, soft skin that extended past that fur he loved so much. Garazeb sucked in a small breath and Alexsandr leaned closer, letting his head rest against a powerful shoulder, murmuring, “We don’t have to keep hiding, you know, if keeping things secret is an issue. I know how important Hera and the others are.”

“There isn’t much of a secret left after getting interrupted like that.” Garazeb spoke softly, his voice more hesitant and unsure than he’d ever heard it before. He covered their joined hands with his free one and squeezed. “I don’t kiss people. Not even on the cheek. I haven’t for a long time. The others know that.”

“We could talk to them? Explain things?”

“Explain what? I don’t even know what we are.”

“Neither do I. Does that matter?”

“I need to figure things out first.” Garazeb sounded pained as he squeezed their hands again with a fraction more force. His head tilted to rest against Alexsandr in return. “I can’t talk to them until I do. It’s...important.” 

“Alright.” Alexsandr sighed as that heavy, familiar cheek rested atop his head. “I can wait.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Alexsandr shifted and reached up to cradle one of those cheeks, his touch gentle as he grazed his thumb across the ridge of his cheek. “I never expected to have a chance at something like this. I don’t mind waiting. I’d wait a lifetime, Garazeb, if it meant we could have something together.”

Garazeb inhaled sharply, but said nothing in response. He just leaned into the curve of his palm and deflated around a long sigh. The apple of his cheek bloomed and Alexsandr knew the Lasat was smiling softly, gazing down at him with that familiar tenderness.

Mustering his courage, Alexsandr leaned in and brushed a soft kiss against the corner of his mouth. It was a slight whisper of pressure, following the lead of the kiss Garazeb had pressed against his cheek earlier. He smiled when warm arms enveloped him a moment later, gathering him closer, and couldn’t stop a small laugh from escaping when Garazeb pulled him further onto the bunk and manhandled him into a more comfortable position. 

“It’ll be some time before we reach Dennogra. Let’s just sit here for a bit.”

“Alright.”

His smile deepened. Alexsandr tucked his head under a furred chin and let his fingers rest across that familiar battlesuit. Though Garazeb was sitting up, their position reminded him of the night he’d fallen asleep wrapped around the Lasat on the base. The softness and comfort soothed him as his head rose and fell with each breath. Idly, Alexsandr caressed his sternum with his fingertips, his chest warming when Garazeb released a tremulous breath before catching his hand and holding it.

Several beats of silence passed before Garazeb said quietly, “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Coruscant.” A large thumb grazed along the curve of his arm. “Tell me somethin’ about it.”

“It stinks.”

* * *

The landing on Dennogra was as smooth as it could be.

Fortunately, between good timing, expert piloting, and a scrambled signature, the _Ghost_ managed to duck around the squadrons of TIEs on their patrol and land a mile outside Zio Snaffkin without issue.

Alexsandr inhaled a lungful of the arid air as he stepped out of the ship, his boots sinking an inch or so into the sand. The lack of moisture in the air was a balm compared to the humid heat of Yavin Four. He experienced a few moments of relief before Hera shoved a helmet into his hands and retreated back into the ship. Sighing, Alexsandr ran his hands over it and compared it to the hundreds of helmets he’d seen during his career with the ISB. With a grilled filter over the mouthpiece and a ridge to accommodate his nose, it reminded him of a helmet he’d once seen a Gank wear on Tatooine.

Alexsandr hummed in satisfaction before shoving it between his legs for a moment and reaching up to undo his blindfold. He stored it in the inner pocket of his jacket. He then gathered his hair together, twisted the locks and coiled them repeatedly, before reaching down to retrieve his new helmet and shoving it into place. His coil of hair shifted briefly, but the pressure from the helmet kept it out of sight.

Almost immediately, his face started to sweat.

Resigning himself to a matted beard and a damp face, Alexsandr sighed again and turned to Garazeb, who’d loped down after him.

“Ready, Sasha?”

“As I’ll ever be,” Alexsandr answered with a smile and then he gasped in surprise at the sound of his voice. Clearly, the helmet came with a voice modulator, for his voice had deepened from his usual rich baritone to a bass. Without thinking, Alexsandr raised his fingers to the mouthpiece of his helmet. “That’s strange.” 

Garazeb chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder before leaning in to murmur, “I kinda like it.”

“A good thing, I suppose, since I’ll sound like that for a while.” Alexsandr flushed with warmth behind his helmet and released an awkward laugh. “With such a large price on me, I might have to use it whenever I leave the base.”

“I think I’m going to throw up,” Bridger grumbled from behind them.

“Shut up,” Garazeb snapped in return. It wasn’t hard to hear the abject embarrassment in his voice, nor to feel his powerful frame stiffen. “Ya don’t have to come. Sasha and I can pick up the intel on our own.”

“You stick out like a sore thumb,” Bridger answered testily, irritation rising, “and he’s inexperienced with the Force. I don’t want to come either, but Hera wants me to keep watch and I don’t want to piss her off. No one does. You know what she’s like.”

All three of them winced when Hera called out from deep in the cargo bay, “I heard that.”

“Let’s just go,” Alexsandr said quietly, stepping between the Lasat and his nuisance of an adoptive brother, hoping to distract the former somewhat. He brushed a hand against a furred bicep. “We’ve got a deadline to keep.”

“Right.” Garazeb huffed and grabbed his wrist abruptly, his grip firm. “C’mon then.”

The walk to Zio Snaffkin was tense and uncomfortable, with Bridger scowling at their backs as moody, infuriating teenagers were wont to do. It didn’t take Alexsandr long to realise that it must have been Bridger that interrupted them earlier, given the continuous pulse of anger and humiliation that emanated from Garazeb’s glowing circuit.

Not to mention his growling breaths.

Fortunately, reaching the port seemed to distract Bridger enough to let them both breathe a small sigh of relief. His pace started to slow, hanging back to let the distance between their group grow, so that he could watch from afar.

Alexsandr and Garazeb forged on with care, taking a circuitous route to the cantina and avoiding the busier streets, where stormtroopers would be out and about in heavier numbers to watch the transient population. He kept his connection to the Force low, allowing him to sense other people in the vicinity, but not broadcasting his presence to potential force-sensitives in the area.

Jarrus had suggested it. 

And it seemed like a good idea as Alexsandr and Garazeb moved through the city, casual and alert at the same time. The pair of them were just two transients looking to relax or trade wherever possible. Alexsandr led the Lasat through the streets, having walked them countless times before during his time with the ISB, and Garazeb followed without argument.

Alexsandr paused when the pair of them arrived at the cantina and reached out to stop Garazeb from entering, murmuring, “I’ll go in first and make sure there aren’t Imperials inside. Keep the commlink active.”

“Be careful.”

Alexsandr smiled behind his helmet. He shook his head and said nothing, but patted a large bicep to communicate his gratitude for the concern. And then he took a deep breath before stepping through the door, allowing the music from the cantina band to flood his senses for a moment or so before moving to the bar and ordering a drink with one of the casual hand signals he’d learned the last time he’d been at the cantina. Alexsandr let his senses sharpen a fraction as he waited for his drink and felt around the different circuits throughout the cantina. 

No one seemed to sense him as he looked for whispers of Imperial dogma. 

Fortunately, no one seemed to be an Imperial either.

Alexsandr passed a few credits to the barman and saluted him before moving away, moving to a small table just big enough for himself and Garazeb. He murmured that the place was clear before raising his visor enough to reveal his mouth and took a sip of his Trandoshan whiskey, a soft noise of appreciation escaping him as the intense drink burned a familiar pattern down his throat.

Garazeb entered the cantina a few moments later, his large presence filling the open space almost completely, catching the admiring attention of a few patrons of the bar. He didn’t seem to notice as he ordered his drink and plonked down opposite Alexsandr, the glowing circuits moving through his ears shifting with alertness.

“Is he here,” Alexsandr asked as he took another small sip, as though the pair of them were just having a simple conversation. “Do we know what he looks like?”

“No, but we’re early, and also no,” Garazeb answered. He took a swallow of his ale and leaned forward as something akin to a teasing grin slipped into his voice. Alexsandr knew it was an act...but hearing it made his heart flutter in his chest all the same. “All I know is that he’ll be tapping a pattern on his tankard. I’ll know it when I see it.”

Alexsandr and Garazeb began to hold an idle conversation after that. But he knew the Lasat had his attention riveted to the space around them as the wait for their informant continued. His feline senses were sharp, much sharper than his own natural ones, and Alexsandr was glad that Garazeb was with him to keep watch for the informant.

Almost on cue, someone stepped into the cantina at the appropriate time.

Alexsandr studied them through his connection with the Force and was surprised when the figure paused for a moment before continuing, crossing the bar and ordering a drink with a voice reminiscent of a used-speeder salesman. The thought alone made his face wrinkle with distaste behind his helmet. Alexsandr paid even closer attention to him and noted his four arms, his diminutive stature, and his pointed ears — which were small and almost perpendicular to his round head.

“I think that’s him.”

“We’ll see,” Garazeb answered before swallowing the second to last mouthful of his ale and leaning in as though he were about to murmur something filthy, his furred leg brushing against his calf under the table.

Alexsandr almost dropped his shot glass as a spark of sensation ran up through his leg, several tendrils of their circuits tangling and igniting at once. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced the sensation since he’d started using the Force to move around in unfamiliar spaces, but it was the first time that it came without warning. It was the first time it had felt so...sexual. Alexsandr inhaled a ragged breath and downed the last of his shot before allowing himself to caress that furred leg in return.

The smooth leather of his boot grazed against the bend of that digitigrade ankle.

His lips curled around a small smirk as Garazeb almost choked on the last mouthful of his ale. 

“Something wrong, _darling_?”

“N-no,” Garazeb answered quickly, thumping himself between coughs. “I-I’m fine. _Babe_.”

Alexsandr almost snorted then. He leaned closer instead and said softly, almost purring at Garazeb, “Good. You can get me another drink then. I’ll keep watch over our suspected friend there.”

“Yeah.” Garazeb nodded with surprising force. “Yeah. I can do that.”

Alexsandr wasn’t unaware of the few jealous patrons watching his quiet interactions with Garazeb, unable to hear their conversation and suspecting something sexual in nature, and wishing it was them in his stead. He couldn’t stop a wave of smug satisfaction from washing through his frame. Let them watch. Let them be jealous. Let them crave the Lasat that moved through the cantina with an air of nervous excitement around him. Alexsandr was secure in the knowledge that Garazeb wasn’t interested in them.

“You’re both disgusting,” Bridger said in his ear.

Alexsandr feigned scratching his beard and said awkwardly, “You...heard all that?”

“Zeb forgot to turn his commlink off before going in.” Bridger huffed into his ear. He sounded almost as amused as he was pained when he spoke again. “I figured it was best to leave the connection open and have an extra pair of ears in there. Regretting that now, of course. I just wish I didn’t know it wasn’t an act for the mission. The things I endure for family, huh?”

“We’re going to have words later,” Alexsandr answered. “It won’t be pleasant.”

“It never is. Just focus on the mission.”

“I am.”

“You’d better be.”

All the while, Alexsandr kept his senses trained on the figure he suspected was their waiting informant. He sensed him sipping his drink — which was almost taller than his head — as he pulled a datapad out of his pocket and opened it up. His focus narrowed as the figure tapped at the screen several times and laughed to himself. It took a few moments to realise why; the figure was messing with a game of some sort. Sighing, Alexsandr let his senses ease.

Perhaps it wasn’t him after all. 

Garazeb returned a moment or so later, hands laden with drinks. He set them down with care before plonking down in his seat. He didn’t acknowledge Bridger, who he knew now was listening in on their conversation. If he was embarrassed to have been heard flirting, Garazeb didn’t show it.

Alexsandr supposed the Lasat was too focused on the figure he’d pointed out to him earlier.

Several minutes passed before Garazeb stiffened at the other side of the table, knee bumping against the wood. His strangled gasp alarmed Alexsandr, who said sharply, “What is it?”

“The pattern he’s tapping,” Garazeb whispered. His voice sounded pained. His large hand darted across the table and snared his, squeezing hard — though not hard enough to hurt. “It’s a code we used among the higher ranks in the Honour Guard. We...we used to use it to communicate across rooms without speaking.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No,” Garazeb said quickly, quietly, rushing to assure them both. He squeezed his hand again and then covered their joined hands with his free one. “Whoever told him that code, it was someone trusted in the ranks. Or an outsider that we’d trusted with the code. It...it could even be Cal. I taught it to him when he was a kid.” 

“It could have been a collaborator,” Alexsandr said hesitantly, swallowing around the lump that started to form in his throat as claws threatened to dig into his skin. “Thrawn said there were collaborators on Lasan. This...this could be a trap.”

“No.” Garazeb shook his head and his voice hardened. “I can’t believe that. I won’t.”

“We’re not going to ignore the possibility,” Bridger interjected straight into his ear. A faint whisper of sound echoed elsewhere and Alexsandr realised Garazeb must have hidden his active commlink somewhere on his person — allowing his sharper ears to hear the message while muffling it for others that might choose to eavesdrop. Both of them listened to the Padawan as he spoke. Bridger was calmer now, his irritation gone as he focused on the mission at hand and the possible threat to their group. “We’ll be careful. I’ll keep pace with him when he leaves and scout ahead. Just act natural when following behind us.”

“Will do.” 

Alexsandr took his time finishing his drink and did his best to distract Garazeb, to soothe him and encourage him back to the teasing attitude he’d used earlier. It wasn’t easy, but Garazeb did relax somewhat and Alexsandr squeezed his hand in encouragement.

Eventually, he and Garazeb left the table, following a few minutes behind the informant. He slid his visor back down to conceal his mouth and the pair of them wound through the streets together, exchanging flirtatious commentary, seeming just like another pair of transients roaming the streets — perhaps intending to continue their flirtation in private. 

The informant led them through the streets in what seemed a casual fashion.

Alexsandr, however, could sense his nerves from a distance. His nerves seemed to sharpen whenever their path came close to intersecting with those of stormtroopers, whose voices could be heard with ease. His fear that it might be a trap eased somewhat as the informant avoided them as much as possible.

Slowly, the informant led them to the edge of Zio Snaffkin...and then kept going, heading out into the sand and leaving the port behind. Bridger was forced to reveal himself at that point and the figure gave him a nervous wave before quickening his pace, growing more determined to reach his destination.

Alexsandr and Garazeb followed suit. Their longer strides allowed them to close the distance with ease and while the pair of them were still a few meters away, Alexsandr turned his head and asked Garazeb, “Where are we?”

“We’re about three miles north of the _Ghost_.”

“Somehow...I don’t think we’re collecting intel. It might be a package.”

“Seems that way,” Bridger agreed as Alexsandr and Garazeb fell into step with him. The three of them continued to follow the informant. “But I don’t think we’re collecting a package. It could be a refugee...or a prisoner. His thoughts keep circling around getting someone off his ship.”

“A refugee,” Garazeb whispered tremulously, his breath catching. “Ya think it could be a Lasat?”

Alexsandr didn’t turn his senses towards Garazeb. He didn’t speak. He didn’t mention how slim the chance was. No one would know how slim it was better than Garazeb Orrelios, who’d once told him that he knew what happened to Lasats in an Imperial prison. Alexsandr just captured his hand again and squeezed instead.

He didn’t want the Lasat to get his hopes up.

But he didn’t want to crush them either. 

Whatever it turned out to be, Alexsandr would support Garazeb. No matter what.

Garazeb seemed to appreciate the unspoken assurance, shuffling closer without a word and squeezing his hand right back.

For once, Bridger didn’t comment. 

It seemed even Bridger knew better than to open his mouth sometimes.

A mile and a half out from the city, the glowing outline of a ship loomed into view in the distance and Alexsandr allowed his senses to sharpen again. He focused on the ship. There were people onboard. Four...and a small droid...though it was difficult to make them out within the glowing presence of the ship at such a distance. His senses weren’t as keen as Bridger’s or Jarrus’ and wouldn’t be for some time, not without further training, but he was confident that he’d detected all the lives on the ship. 

One distant figure seemed to turn in his direction. 

Alexsandr released a shaking breath as something brushed against his consciousness a moment later. A presence he hadn’t felt in his mind in so long. Not since he was a child. But he’d never forget who it belonged to. Not for as long as he lived. A grin bloomed into being behind his helmet and Alexsandr turned to Garazeb, gasping, “Cal is on the ship!”

Garazeb thumped his arm and growled lightly, “I fuckin’ told ya!”

The Lasat quickened his pace, his loping stride letting him bound past the short figure guiding them.

Alexsandr and Bridger, both of them sweating from the arid heat in the air, jogged to keep up with him. And soon the three of them were at the base of the ramp as Cal stepped out to usher them inside, their diminutive guide bringing up the rear.

“Good job, Greez.”

“I’m never doing that again. Do you know how many stormtroopers are on this rock?”

“Yes, you will.”

“Yes,” Greez sighed in return as he darted past Alexsandr and the others. “I will. Let’s get this done, so that we can get out of here. The longer we’re here, the greater the chance that TIEs will come along and spot us. This old girl has been through enough.”

“Okay,” Cal answered easily, a hint of fondness in his voice. He turned to them then and hit the control panel to raise the ramp and close the door. He waved to them and a small smile slipped into his voice. “Come on. Let’s not keep our guest waiting longer than need be.”

Cal led them deeper into the ship, to the common area. 

The other three people were clustered together, two of them comforting the taller figure in the middle, who sat hunched on a cushioned bench. The drape of a hood concealed their features until Garazeb came closer, scenting the air, ears wiggling, his breath quickening with hope and excitement.

The figure raised their head and lowered their hood.

Alexsandr felt his breath catch in his chest.

It was another Lasat.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays!!!
> 
> Have an early update! :D

Alexsandr couldn’t determine how old she was or what she looked like through his connection with the Force. All he could sense was the simultaneous outpouring of the purest grief and the greatest joy, the devastating sound of her sobbing filling the ship as Garazeb rushed to her and gasped a stream of heartfelt Lasana before gathering the other Lasat in his arms and crushing her close. Alexsandr stepped back and closed his connection immediately, undeserving of their emotions.

Alexsandr retreated to the door and turned his back on the pair, choosing instead to lean against the sun-warmed metal. Shame and guilt twisted in his stomach like knives as the sound of her sobbing echoed through the ship. Alexsandr reached into his pocket and withdrew his blindfold carefully, winding it around his hands and running the soft material through his fingers as though it could provide some comfort in the face of what he’d learned. 

He didn’t deserve to be there.

He didn’t deserve to be involved in this.

Not after what he’d done.

His mouth twisted. His tear ducts heated. If the other Lasat knew who he was, she’d be within her rights to kill him where he stood and he wouldn’t raise a hand to stop her. He’d never raise a hand to hurt another Lasat again. Not for as long as he breathed. Alexsandr bowed his head and whispered the promise to the Force, the Ashla that watched over them all and fought to keep them from the Bogan’s clutches, that believed he could be something else, something more. 

“Sasha?”

Alexsandr stiffened.

“C’mere.”

“I don’t think that would be wise.”

“Stop frettin’ and just come here,” Garazeb said firmly, his tone indicating that it was no longer a request.

It was an order.

Feeling mutinous, but knowing he’d never disobey, Alexsandr turned and complied with the command Garazeb had given him. He continued to wring the blindfold in his hands as he approached slowly, and carefully, following the same path he’d used to retreat in order to avoid opening his connection again.

Once he was close, Garazeb captured his hand in a gentle grip and led him around a short table. He instructed him to sit down and Alexsandr did so, his blood thundering in his ears, his knees brushing against a leg that jumped back at the touch. Garazeb slid his hand up to his shoulder and squeezed.

“Sasha...this is Zoral. She was an apprentice at the temple in the capital. She used to train with Chava.”

There was that name again. Chava. Chava the Wise, as Garazeb had referred to her once or twice in their numerous conversations since he’d arrived on the base. She was the High Priestess that had helped train Garazeb, preparing him for captaincy, and who’d once been a prisoner of the Empire — a prisoner that Garazeb had helped escape. Chava was the Lasat that claimed Alexsandr was The Warrior, whatever that meant.

“Zoral...this is Sasha. He’s the Warrior.”

“The Bogan had its claws deep in him. His current is still tainted in places.” The anger and fear in her voice was sharp and unforgiving. It cut through him like a knife...but it was nothing more than what he deserved. “How can we trust him?”

“Because he saved me. More than once,” Garazeb said. “Chava believes in him and so do I.”

“I will keep that in mind. But I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to trust me,” Alexsandr said softly, reaching up to remove his helmet. His loose hair spilled down around his shoulders, frizzing from the friction against the helmet while he’d been out and about in Zio Snaffkin. Alexsandr felt her recoil at the sight of his face, his sunken eyelids, so unnatural to all who saw them. “But trust that we have a shared enemy, Zoral. The Empire did this to me. If it wasn’t for Garazeb, and his friends, I’d still be rotting in a prison cell. I might even be dead.”

Zoral said nothing for a long moment and then whispered raggedly, her voice shaking with vulnerability, “I... I understand. The Empire took something from me too.”

“Zoral was the information I was looking for,” Cal said quietly, his voice coming from somewhere off to the side, “when I broke that Inquisitor and stole his identity; the one whose clothes I wore when we rescued Sasha from the complex. Zoral was in a bad way; I wasn’t sure she’d pull through until a few weeks ago. It was the reason I didn’t mention her the last time we spoke.”

“Thank you. For looking after her,” Garazeb said quietly, his voice choking with emotion. 

“It was the least we could do,” said another voice, strong and feminine, but tranquil in a manner that reminded Alexsandr of Jarrus. He couldn’t help wondering whether she was a Jedi or whether she’d been one in the past. Before the Purge. The woman continued speaking. “I am Cere Junda and this is Merrin.”

“Touching as this is,” Greez said through the intercom on the ship, “we’ve...uh...got a problem.”

Alexsandr heard a quick rustle of fabric and then heard Cal say, “TIEs?”

“TIEs,” Greez confirmed. The ship came to life around them. “We’ve got to get out of here!”

“Our ship is three miles south of here,” Garazeb said quickly, unclipping his bo-rifle from his back. Alexsandr did the same, the weapon a familiar weight in his hands, and rose to his feet at once, his heart threatening to punch a hole through his chest. “Get us there and we’ll jump out.”

“Hang on.”

Alexsandr staggered backwards and almost toppled over the table behind him as the ship rose sharply, but Garazeb caught him with a quick arm around his waist and pulled him upright at once. His arm remained a strong support as the ship shot forward with little warning, the engine propelling them hard and fast. He shoved his helmet down over his head and stuffed his blindfold into his pocket. Alexsandr snapped his connection open at once and moved around the table, knowing it wouldn’t be long until he and the others would be jumping out of the ship and sprinting across hot sand to reach the _Ghost_.

Alexsandr and Garazeb reached out for Zoral together, taking a hand each. 

Her breath quickening, Zoral didn’t hesitate to follow them. 

The three of them hurried to the door. Bridger followed closely, informing Hera of the development as he did so.

Cal followed them to the door and grabbed Alexsandr, gripping his shoulder with one hand and slipping something over his neck with the other. A small handful of crystals sang against his sternum.

“Two from the Inquisitor,” Cal said quickly, “and one to spare. Find a good home for them.”

“Cal —”

“We’ll see each other again. I promise.” Cal stepped back and hit the control panel with the spread of his fingers, commanding the door to open and the ramp to drop. The iconic scream of TIEs could be heard over the air rushing past the ship with ease and their scream was growing louder with each passing moment as the TIEs gained ground. “We’re almost there. Brace for the jump!”

“One,” Bridger shouted over the scream of TIEs, the hilt of his lightsaber clutched in one hand.

“Two,” said Cal with a nod of encouragement.

“Three,” Garazeb bellowed and Alexsandr jumped without thinking, his hand still wrapped tight around Zoral.

For several alarming seconds, Alexsandr was airborne and then the dull glow of the sand rushed up to meet him like a brick wall. He threw himself forward in an effort to ease the impact on his legs and toppled down a dune, head over backside, grunting and gasping with pain as the repeated impacts jarred his old breaks and tore at his visible skin.

Sand spilled through the filter of his helmet.

Zoral cried out in raw pain beside him. 

Her hand slipped from his grasp.

Alexsandr came up rolling, spitting sand out of his mouth. He searched for the girl with his senses and he found her a few feet away, clutching at herself in agony; the vibrant red of her pain startled him. Alexsandr stumbled over to her and reached her in the same instant that Garazeb did.

Together, Alexsandr and Garazeb pulled her up from the ground and half-carried her away, all too aware of the TIEs approaching fast behind them.

Bridger was fending them off already, his hands raised high in the air and a large shield made of glowing Force-energy hovering in front of him. With each proton torpedo that struck the shield and was deflected elsewhere, Bridger staggered back a step with a grunt of monumental effort.

Alexsandr didn’t know what prompted him to let Zoral go, to abandon Garazeb and run towards Bridger. He didn’t know what compelled him to start pressing buttons he hadn’t known existed and pulling at the various segments of his bo-rifle, changing its configuration to something he didn’t even recognise. He didn’t know what made him run past Bridger, made him ignore the frantic shouts of Garazeb, or aim his altered bo-rifle at the approaching TIEs.

All he knew was the sharp twist of that now-familiar muscle in his abdomen.

All he knew was the sudden rush of power as his connection slammed open wider.

All Alexsandr knew was the violent arc of amber lightning that shot from the end of his bo-rifle. It splintered as it arced through the sky, each dangerous prong striking true in the split-second before the rush of power slammed back into him. Alexsandr had a single moment to witness the explosion of the approaching TIEs through the Force before that rush of power sent him hurtling backwards with a shout of startled fright.

“What the FU —”

Bridger didn’t have a chance to dodge before Alexsandr slammed into him and sent them both crashing into a mound of sand. He grunted in pain before shoving Alexsandr off with a rough hand. 

“You did the _thing_!”

“What thing?!”

“The thing that _Zeb_ can do!”

“I don’t understand!”

“That’s not fucking normal!” Bridger gestured with a wild hand towards crashing debris in the distance, the sound of the TIEs’ demise loud and harsh in the silence of the desert. “Jedi can’t fucking do that!”

“I’m not a Jedi.”

“No fucking shit.” Bridger got to his feet with a snarl of frustration. His frustration pulsed from him in glowing waves, the emotion almost as hot as the sand beneath them. “Got other secrets to share with the class?”

Alexsandr didn’t answer, unable to muster words. He just sat in the sand as Bridger stalked towards the _Ghost_ — where Jarrus and Hera were sprinting down the ramp, their shock a bright presence in the Force. Alexsandr let his bo-rifle go, still in the configuration he’d never seen before, and ripped his helmet off before pressing his face against his knees as an unwelcome wave of panic rose in his chest.

His connection snapped shut.

Alexsandr didn’t know how much time passed before gentle hands heaved him up from the sand and cradled him against a broad chest. All he knew was the warm slide of fur against his face and the shift of powerful muscle beneath his fingers. All he knew was the soft rumbling purr that slid down from his ear and into his chest to chase the panic from his frame, replacing it with something soft and soothing, something tranquil. Alexsandr clung to the Lasat and dragged in one lungful of his scent after another. 

Garazeb carried him and his abandoned things into the _Ghost_.

It wasn’t long until Garazeb set him down in the cargo bay, right on top of a crate as the ramp raised behind them and cut them off from the world outside. The engine, singing already, sent the ship into the air a moment later. A large hand cradled his face and encouraged Alexsandr to raise his head as Garazeb said quietly, his voice trembling “Ya scared me back there. I... I thought…”

“I think I scared me too,” Alexsandr croaked as he managed a strangled laugh. His fingers shook as he reached out and rested his hands against that powerful chest in front of him. Each rumbling breath rippled through his palms and along his wrists. It comforted him. “I don’t know what happened back there. I don’t know what I did. I didn’t even know the bo-rifle could _do that_.” 

“Ya used the ancient way,” Garazeb answered. His voice was little more than a whisper now as he pressed their brows together, sending a huff of ale-scented breath across his face. His hand shifted to tangle in his dishevelled hair, fingers losing themselves in the cascade of locks, and sending some sand tumbling down over his shoulders. Alexsandr released a shaking breath and his own fingers curled around tight fistfuls of that familiar battlesuit as Garazeb kept talking, his words falling fast and urgent. “It was how Lasats once channeled their power. Few Lasats have used it since the ancients travelled the universe. Few Lasats had that much raw power when Lasan fell.”

“What does that mean _for me_?”

“I don’t know.” Garazeb drew him into his arms then and crushed him close. The strength of his muscles was an immediate comfort. Alexsandr curled his own arms around the Lasat without hesitation and tucked his head under that bearded chin. “I... I never expected somethin’ like this to happen. This is somethin’ we need to speak to Chava about. Sooner rather than later.”

“Where is she?”

“Somewhere safe.” Garazeb nuzzled his hair. “You can come with me when I take Zoral there.”

“How is Zoral?”

“Hurt. Hera and Kanan are treatin’ her.”

“How bad is it?”

“S’bad.” His voice cracked with a sudden outpouring of grief. “The Inquisitors took her fur. She was still healin’ from bein’ skinned when we hit the sand. Her skin was so raw and shiny, so new and vulnerable, and the sand just ripped through it.”

“You should be with her,” Alexsandr said immediately, recoiling with dawning horror.

“Ya needed me.”

“I’ll be fine.” Alexsandr shook his head. “Zoral needs her people. Go. Be the support she needs.”

“Ya sure?”

“Yes.” Alexsandr nodded his head then and reached up to fist a handful of that fur he loved so much before tugging his head down. He crushed their brows together for a short moment and then brushed a kiss against the tip of his nose, inhaling the scent of Garazeb and that sweet ale he’d imbibed earlier before releasing the Lasat and giving him a light push. “I’m sure.” 

Garazeb pressed a quick kiss to his forehead and then bolted.

Alexsandr released a tremulous breath and pushed a shaking hand through his hair, pulling it back from his face. He spent the next several minutes just breathing, calming himself down from that sharp burst of adrenaline and emotion that had plagued him. Thankfully, Garazeb had brought his emotions down to a more manageable level before Alexsandr ushered him away; it allowed him to get a handle on the rest. Finally, Alexsandr hopped down from the crate and grunted as pain flared through his legs before seizing his bo-rifle.

Allowing his connection to open slightly, Alexsandr studied the weapon. He changed the configuration back to the usual rifle and then ran his fingers over the warmed metal in wonderment. The buttons he’d pressed to engage the newfound configuration were obvious now, but had gone unnoticed since he’d first held the weapon so long ago. Alexsandr couldn’t help wondering whether he’d unlocked something within the weapon when he’d started connecting to the Force again.

It was something he’d have to ask Garazeb later. 

Once Zoral was taken somewhere safe. 

Alexsandr clipped the weapon to the magnet he’d attached to his jacket before landing on Dennogra and grabbed his helmet before heading for the ladder. He climbed slowly, wearily, his frame heavier than it had felt in a while, and was surprised to find Bridger waiting at the top. He froze immediately, regretting that he hadn’t put his blindfold back on before ascending, as Bridger stared down at him for a long and agonising moment. 

And then the teenager held a hand out.

“I’m sorry,” Bridger said quietly, his frustration from earlier evaporated. “I overreacted.”

Alexsandr accepted the offer silently, surprised and a little touched. He let Bridger help him up the last few steps and then studied the boy, watching him through the Force as Bridger watched him in return. Finally, Alexsandr said softly, “You don’t have to like me. You can hate me for as long as we breathe...but please don’t take it out on Garazeb. He’s struggling with his feelings enough without someone heaping shame on him for how he feels.”

Alexsandr reached out and gripped his shoulder for a moment before turning to leave.

“I was worried about him.” Bridger blurted the words out before he could leave and Alexsandr paused. Fear and frustration sparked into being in the same instant. Bridger scrubbed at his face. “Zeb had nothing left before the _Ghost_ came along. And then all he had was us. And now Sabine’s spending all her time on Mandalore and he misses her all the fucking time. And that’s hard enough on its own without the war getting harder and harder to fight. And I just…” His voice took on an almost helpless edge. “Someday, he might lose one of us. I didn’t want him to get attached to another person he could lose. You’re quite high on the shit list.”

“You can’t make that choice for him.” 

“I thought…” Bridger shook his head. “I don’t know what I thought. It was dumb.”

“Well. You are a teenager,” Alexsandr mused.

“Hey,” Bridger said mulishly, a pulse of irritation flickering through his circuit. He folded his arms across his chest between one heartbeat and the next. “You were a teen once too.”

“I know and I made poor choices as well. I’ve lived to suffer the consequences.” Alexsandr reached out and gripped his shoulder again. He offered a small smile. “Spend more time thinking, and less time mouthing, and perhaps we can avoid a few more, hm?” 

“Yeah. Alright.” Bridger sighed. “I’m going to put on waffles. Want some?”

“Jabba, I could eat a whole bantha right now,” Alexsandr answered as his smile deepened with gratitude. He gave the moody, but caring Padawan a light shove to get him moving. “Be a good sport and put on extra for Garazeb and Zoral. The pair of them could do with some loving care.”

“I will.”

Bridger darted on ahead.

Alexsandr followed at a much slower pace and scrubbed at his own face. He wanted nothing more than to crash into the nearest bunk. But he knew it would be wise to eat something after all that excitement. As soon as he reached the galley, Alexsandr sank onto the bench at the dejarik table and set his helmet down beside him with a sigh. 

Rex clapped him on the shoulder as he passed and said cheerfully, “Saw what happened to those TIEs. Good job, kid.” 

Alexsandr snorted at the unexpected moniker and then slipped into a laughing fit filled with exhaustion. If this was what life would be like on the _Ghost_ in the future, he doubted he’d ever feel rested again. Alexsandr was getting too old for this shit. 

_You’re not even forty_ , that growling voice at the back of his mind chided.

_But I feel like I’m eighty_ , Alexsandr almost said before shaking his head.

Sometime later, Bridger plonked a plate of waffles in front of him and Garazeb and Zoral joined him at the table, the latter limping and the former supporting her with gentle hands. Alexsandr offered both Lasats a tired smile before digging into the quick meal Bridger had prepared for him. Amazingly, the waffles were somehow the best and worst things he’d ever tasted at the same time and Alexsandr wasn’t certain how Bridger managed to achieve that.

Alexsandr decided he didn’t care enough to find out.

Time passed slowly, punctuated with infrequent pats on his knee from a large hand. 

Eventually, the plates were cleared away, and Garazeb left to speak with Hera. Alexsandr supposed it was about the plan to bring him with him to...wherever he’d be taking Zoral now that the _Ghost_ was far enough from Dennogra. It wasn’t hard to hear the raised voices coming from the other side of the ship, but he couldn’t make out the words. Alexsandr supposed it was a good thing; he didn’t have enough willpower left to deal with another weight on his chest.

Garazeb was upset when he returned. It radiated from his circuit in thick waves and Alexsandr couldn’t help reaching out with a concerned hand. But the Lasat shook his head to dismiss his concern and moved to help Zoral out of her seat instead.

“C’mon. We’re takin’ the _Phantom_.”

Alexsandr didn’t argue with him. He rose from the bench and followed the pair, grabbing a spare blanket from a crate on a whim. Without the soft cushion of her fur, sitting in the back of the shuttle wasn’t going to be comfortable for Zoral. A soft blanket might make it easier, Alexsandr felt.

Once Zoral was settled in the back of the shuttle, the blanket bundled underneath her and her cloak wrapped around her, Alexsandr snared Garazeb and pulled him out of earshot before the Lasat could take a seat in the pilot’s chair.

“If bringing me is causing friction with the Spectres —”

“Stop,” Garazeb said quietly, a hint of irritation flaring. “You’re comin’. End of discussion.”

“Hera doesn’t trust me.”

“It isn’t that.” Garazeb deflated. He rubbed the back of his neck and Alexsandr heard the whisper of his claws through fur. Hearing it hurt his heart. “It’s just...the more people know about the refuge, the higher the risk that word will reach the Empire. Where we’re goin’ has never been discovered until I came along. Normally, it would just be me and the refugees I’d found on the shuttle, but it’s important that we speak to Chava about what happened on Dennogra. I told Hera that. She’s not happy, exactly, but she accepted that it was important.”

“Don’t tell me where it is, Garazeb.” Alexsandr gripped his arm and squeezed. “Don’t even give me a hint of the coordinates. I’ll sit in the back with Zoral. I won’t be able to share what I don’t know.”

Garazeb tugged him closer and nuzzled his face without warning, purring into his beard.

Alexsandr smiled up at him and then closed his connection as he withdrew carefully, unable to stop a small bubble of laughter from escaping when Garazeb feigned an effort to pull him back into his embrace, one of those large ears tickling the side of his face. He shook his head and patted his arm before heading into the shuttle, his heart warm with affection. Alexsandr followed the sounds of soft breathing and unclipped his bo-rifle from his back before settling down beside Zoral with a quiet sigh.

It was clear the girl was asleep when she gravitated to the heat of his shoulder.

Yawning, Alexsandr tilted his head back against the shuttle and let himself grow mellow, secure in the knowledge that Garazeb would keep watch over both of them until the _Phantom_ reached its destination.

* * *

Alexsandr woke when the weight vanished from his shoulder, leaving him feeling cold and somewhat bereft. He stirred groggily, listening to several sets of claws clicking against the metal around him. He wobbled a little when he got to his feet before catching his balance against the hull. It took a few moments to get his wits together and start easing out the aches in his legs, hips, and lower back.

The price of falling asleep on the floor, Alexsandr supposed. 

Alexsandr kept his connection closed and moved towards the sound of familiar rumbling breaths until he felt a strong arm brush against his side. He reached into his pocket and withdrew the blindfold. He wrapped it around his head carefully, aware of the dishevelled mess his hair had become. Alexsandr curled his hand around the nearest elbow and released a breath before squeezing in encouragement.

It was time to face the music.

Alexsandr would either be welcomed or he’d be killed on sight. He allowed himself to hope for the former, but he was prepared for the latter; there was no guarantee that the affection that Garazeb felt for him would spare him from retribution. He was prepared for a fight. He was prepared to be torn to pieces or shot where he stood. But Alexsandr wasn’t prepared for when Garazeb turned and seized his head with both hands before rubbing his face all over his hair aggressively, growling all the while, as though he could embed the sound of it in his scent.

“Garazeb?!”

“Hush.” His growl grew louder, more threatening. “You’re protected now. Someone wantin’ revenge will have to go through me first. I’m prepared to fight. If I have to. But I’m hopin’ it won’t come to that. The survivors from Lasan respect me and the position I once held.”

“Garazeb,” Alexsandr breathed. “You can’t mean that. I’m not worth —”

“Don’t.” His hands tightened. Garazeb crushed their brows together. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“I’m a survivor too,” Zoral said from somewhere behind Garazeb, her voice quiet and somewhat uncertain. “I will vouch for Sasha. I know I haven’t known him for long, but he was prepared to die to stop those TIEs. That counts for something. It does to me at least.”

His tear ducts heating, Alexsandr took a step back. His heart twisted in his chest at the knowledge that two Lasats were willing to speak up for him. It was so much more than he’d ever deserved. Alexsandr managed to smile crookedly, tilting his head back as though he might gaze up at Garazeb, and said softly, “Whatever happens out there, Garazeb, thanks for believing in me. That I could be something more, something better. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“Damn right.” Garazeb huffed around a grin. “And don’t forget it.”

A startled laugh escaped Alexsandr. 

Finally, Garazeb opened the door and lowered the ramp, and the three of them stepped out into warm sunlight.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Happy New Year to y'all.

Zeb couldn’t stop a shard of fear from twisting in his heart as the door opened to reveal a squad of Honour Guards clad in their armour, the familiar crest of the ancient Alab household on their tabards. Each of them had their bo-rifles out and extended with the ends ignited. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect the armed escort — ever since he’d first landed on Lira San with Gron and Chava the Wise, he’d had to inform the palace of his arrival and the identities of those he brought with him — but he was afraid for Sasha and what the armed escort might mean for his freedom. Instinctively, Zeb tugged Sasha closer to his side even as he helped Zoral walk down the ramp onto a carpet of lush and verdant grass, where small indigo blossoms bloomed at their feet.

Nostrils flared.

The Honour Guards were inhaling the scent he’d left on Sasha.

Awareness rippled through the squad.

One — a Lieutenant with soft brown fur and a thick almost-black braid curling over her broad shoulder — stepped forward and raised a quelling hand as she said gently, “Peace, Brother. We mean him no harm. But his presence has been summoned at the palace.”

At his side, Sasha started sweating.

The scent of his fear was sharp and distracting, and it took a moment for Zeb to gather his wits enough to say, “Of course, Lieutenant. I’d expect nothin’ less. If permissible, I wish to attend him.”

The Lieutenant inclined her head.

“Sergeant Kíras,” the Lieutenant said as she beckoned one of her underlings — the blue hues of his fur were almost indistinguishable from each other. “Take our wounded Sister to the clinic and ensure she’s taken care of.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Zeb watched the guardsman approach and relinquished Zoral without hesitation. The poor girl was stunned into silence, tears streaming down her raw and tender face, but her naked ears were wiggling with an enthusiasm that went past happiness and into the purest euphoria. Zeb remembered the feeling, and remembered collapsing to his knees beside Chava and Gron as Honour Guards sprinted towards them to defend against an unexpected threat before jerking to a stop in shock as Zeb broke down in tears at the sight of them and held his weapon aloft. 

“Garazeb,” Sasha whispered raggedly, squeezing his elbow, “Are these people survivors?”

“No,” Zeb answered gently, smiling down at him. “No, these Lasats were born on this planet.”

“Born on...but you said…” Momentarily, Sasha seemed a little helpless. “I don’t understand.”

“Lasan was colonised several millennia ago,” Zeb explained softly, grateful that the Lieutenant was allowing him a moment to speak with Sasha before the pair of them were escorted to the palace. He couldn’t help reaching out and tucking a dishevelled lock of hair behind one of those small and tempting ears, so soft and delicate, so vulnerable. His smile deepened to see the little thing dwarfed beside his fingers. “But this...this is where our people came from. There are _millions_ of us here.”

The noise that escaped Sasha wasn’t human. It was closer to the sound of an animal. Within a few short moments, his shoulders were quaking, and his blindfold was soaked through as tears spilled in an endless stream.

Zeb remained at his side, but said nothing, allowing the former Imperial to express his emotions as needed. Though he would stand witness, this wasn’t his burden to bear. These emotions were something Sasha had to deal with on his own terms and in his own time.

It took a few minutes, but the sobs faded to ragged breaths at last and then a beaming smile bloomed into being as Sasha choked on something that wasn’t quite a laugh. And then he said forcefully, “He failed. Director Krennic failed!”

“Krennic?” Zeb tilted his head. “That name rings a bell.”

“It should. He was there that day,” Sasha said with a fierce expression chasing his smile from his face. “On Lasan. He was the one in charge of the siege, the one giving orders to the troopers and...and to me.”

Shame soured his scent in an instant.

The Lieutenant cleared her throat pointedly, catching both of their attention at once. Her expression indecipherable, she gestured for Zeb and Sasha to follow her as she turned and strode back towards the capital city, Doross.

Zeb and Sasha followed at once.

The Honour Guards flanked them.

Zeb had chosen to set the shuttle down on the outskirts of Doross rather than in the middle of the port. He’d hoped to give Zoral and Sasha a greater chance to acclimatise to the information without being overwhelmed with such a large volume of Lasats all at once. Zeb felt it was better to ease them into it.

Doross was just as he remembered from the last visit.

It was immense, stretching as far as he could see, disappearing into the horizon. There were more stone buildings than trees, but the trees that did grow in the streets were huge — so huge that supports had been erected around their trunks. Their leaves of various hues of pinks; and blues; and purples; and reds; and golds; and greens; kissed the facades of the buildings standing tall beside them. The buildings were similar in design to those he remembered from Lasan and it was comforting, filling his chest with an endless warmth.

It wasn’t home.

Not quite.

But it was close, so close, closer than he’d ever come since he’d been dragged from the rubble.

Countless children were in the trees, leaping here and there, or dangling from their claws and laughing. Some gaped at them as the Lieutenant led them through the streets below and Zeb waved up at them warmly, wishing Sasha could see what he could see. Wishing his brothers and sisters, his grandmother and his parents, could walk these streets with him and experience the same exquisite wonder that he felt each time he visited Doross.

The colour of fur was so varied on Lira San.

Back home, most fur had come in shades of pinks, and blues, and purples, while other colours were rare. Lira San was a kaleidoscope of colour in comparison. There were more shades of fur on Lira San than Zeb could dare to name.

Dozens of Lasats walked the streets without fear, smiling and waving at each other, having conversations that meant nothing, but were so precious to the survivors from Lasan. There were differences, of course, between Lasana and the language spoken on Lira San because of independent development. But the root was the same. It hadn’t taken the survivors from Lasan too long to start communicating with their brethren from Lira San in the local language and it had been an enormous relief for all of them.

Zeb covered the hand curled around his elbow and squeezed.

Sasha squeezed back.

The festival square was at the heart of the city, where a large wooden structure had been erected in preparation for the approaching harvest festival. On the first eve, the structure would be set ablaze and the celebrations would begin.

Zeb had missed the last few, unfortunately, though it seemed he’d soon have a chance to witness it at last. Excitement rippled through him at the thought of celebrating the harvest with Sasha at his side. He looked askance at Sasha now and felt a wave of soft fondness roll over him as Sasha listened to the sounds around him intently, an expression of open wonder and disbelief on his face, his head turning in all directions like a small bird. Zeb inhaled a warm mouthful of his happiness and sighed in shameful pleasure. 

That was the scent he liked the most.

It made the soft tones of earth and iron stand out. It was the scent that made his stomach do little flips, made his face break into a crooked grin as soon as he smelled it in the air. It made him almost lose control whenever he drove Sasha into some quiet corner, out of view, and rub kiss after kiss into that messy, horrendous beard that made him lament the sharp mutton chops that Sasha once wore before his imprisonment. It made him want to sweep the man into his arms and spin him around in laughing circles, though it had taken him a long time to admit it to himself.

Admitting such things to himself was hard enough.

Admitting it out loud would be even harder. 

Admitting it to Sasha would be almost impossible.

Admitting it to the other survivors might as well be the same as attempting to move a mountain with his bare hands. He’d seen their anger and grief during support circles. He’d shared in it even as he’d raged inside that Sasha was still with the Empire, refusing to leave when he was told to, putting himself in danger so great that it still haunted the man even now. The others might come to accept that Sasha had left the Empire, might even acknowledge that he’d changed for the better, but none of them — save Chava and Gron perhaps — would ever understand the feelings burning in his chest.

In his soul.

Harbouring these feelings for Sasha felt like stabbing his people in the back. 

Zeb didn’t know what to do. He was still as conflicted as he’d been in the jungle, when he’d rubbed that first kiss into that beard. He didn’t want to let Sasha go, couldn’t stand the thought of doing so, but he couldn’t stand the thought of hurting his people either. He didn’t want to have to make a choice. Zeb wasn’t sure he’d be able to and that thought was a knife through his gut. 

Zeb crushed his turbulent emotions underfoot as the Lieutenant led them to the palace gates at the northern side of the festival square, the curling iron ostentatious. Several Honour Guards patrolled the walls around the property, bo-rifles in the standard configuration gripped in their hands. Some saluted him as a mark of respect for his former position and Zeb acknowledged them with a dip of his head.

He never once let go of Sasha as the Lieutenant led them up the gravel path to the stone steps of the palace, where the doors stood open to admit them. His grip grew a fraction tighter instead as the stone faces of ancient nobles stared down at him from either side of the large double doors. It was a sight he’d seen before, but it never failed to send a shiver of fear down his spine as the statues seemed to pass judgement on him and find him wanting, undeserving of setting foot within the palace walls.

His ears drooped at the thought for the dozenth time since he’d first landed on Lira San.

It didn’t matter how often the other survivors assured him that he wasn’t a failure. That the fall of Lasan wasn’t his fault. That no one could have succeeded in the face of such relentless barbarism. The weight of what happened still crushed his shoulders even now.

Sasha shifted closer to his side.

Zeb struggled against the urge to slip an arm around him and press his face into that dishevelled hair. He struggled against the urge to lose himself in that scent of earth and iron. He struggled against the urge to feel those needy, desperate hands fisting his fur as though he were the best thing since meiloorun. Zeb struggled against the need to feel...wanted...and appreciated...and _cherished_.

The pair of them were escorted into the throne room. 

Her Majesty, Ga’haso Alab, the Queen of Lira San stared down at them from a throne that sat upon a raised dais, her fur silver with age — at a fine two hundred and one, the Queen was the oldest Lasat on the planet. Twin holes pierced the tips of her ears and a third piercing held an obsidian ring, indicating her status as a widow. Her gaze was shrewd and wise, set deep among the wrinkling fur of her face, and her traditional robes were a warm red that spilled around her like blood. Her sharpened claws gleamed where she rested her hands upon the arms of her throne and the sight of them made Zeb nervous.

Three chairs were set before her.

One of them was occupied.

Chava the Wise smiled as the Honour Guards escorted them to the remaining seats.

Zeb settled into the chair on the left and allowed Sasha to sit between them. He knew Chava would vouch for the Warrior, and would protect him if necessary, though the Lieutenant had assured Zeb that no harm would come to Sasha. Without thinking, Zeb captured a hand and held it tight in the protective curl of his fingers.

“So, this is the one,” Ga’haso said crisply, her voice majestic, but not unkind. It was not fear that inspired her people, but her fair hand and clever mind. Zeb had learned as much from his previous visits, from seeing the love shared between the Queen and her people. It reminded him of the woman he’d once served. Her gaze fixed on Sasha. “Alexsandr Kallus, Former Agent of the ISB. Yes?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Sasha confirmed with a faint flinch. “Though it isn’t who I wish to be.”

“You would take another name?”

“Yes.” Sasha bowed his head. “In a heartbeat.” 

“I sense much fear,” Ga’haso replied quietly, her head tilting and her brow furrowing, “and shame. You wear it like a shroud.”

“I have...much...to be ashamed of.”

“Indeed.” Ga’haso leaned back in her throne. She clicked one claw against the arm of her throne in thought as she studied them both. “I’ve heard many, many things about the horrors the ISB and the Empire at large have committed against our brethren on Lasan. And I’ve heard other things...about a man that earned a bo-rifle from a guardsman...and a man that saved the life of our Brother, Garazeb Orrelios, and who sacrificed much in an attempt to keep rebels from harm. It is strange to think that such different men inhabit the same form. Perhaps a new name is warranted.”

Zeb blinked.

Sasha snapped his head up in surprise, his lips parting around a gasp.

“Tell me, Alexsandr Kallus, what would this new name be?”

“Sasha… Sasha Kestis,” Sasha answered slowly, the blindfold wrinkling as he frowned. “It is a name free of shame and guilt. It is free of the horrors that Alexsandr Kallus witnessed and participated in...but I don’t deserve a clean slate. I haven’t earned it and...and I would rather earn it.”

Several beats of silence passed as Ga’haso studied Sasha.

Zeb didn’t dare speak up, afraid that whatever he might give voice to would undermine the moment happening right in front of him. But his attention darted between the pair of them. And he knew the Queen wasn’t unaware of it. He knew she wasn’t unaware of his fear. He knew she could smell it in his fur and sense it through the Ashla. Zeb just hoped his fear wouldn’t make things worse.

“Your efforts against the Empire haven’t fallen on deaf ears, Alexsandr Kallus,” Ga’haso said at last. She leaned forward a fraction in her throne, her robes shifting with her movements. She snapped her fingers and a handmaid stepped out from the shadows behind her throne, bowing and holding out a datachip, which Ga’haso accepted. “When the Empire has fallen and the war is over, you will be trialled in our court. Your actions will be weighed. Your _character_ will be weighed. To allow our court full understanding, you will take this and make a record of all events relevant to your fall from the Ashla and your subsequent rise from the Bogan.”

Zeb looked askance at Sasha to see the man turn pale as a sheet.

“How...how far back do I need to go?”

“As far as necessary,” Ga’haso replied. Her gaze grew sharper and Sasha folded into himself as though he could sense it. “The choices we make don’t arise from nothing. The things we experience in life shape who we are and what we do. Your descent into the Bogan didn’t begin with the rise of the Empire. Like all things that grow, somewhere a seed was planted within fertile soil and allowed the Bogan to gain a foothold. You will know where it began.” 

“You’re asking me to speak about things that I’ve never spoken of before,” Sasha whispered.

“Yes.”

“And this,” Sasha continued tremulously, his voice cracking, his shaking fingers curling around his sleeve, “will give me a chance at being pardoned? A chance at a new life?”

“A chance,” Ga’haso confirmed with a faint nod. She held out the datachip and the Lieutenant stepped forward to accept it from her, to bring it to Sasha on her behalf. “Whether Alexsandr Kallus or Sasha Kestis will emerge from the Hall of Justice remains to be seen.”

Sasha released a breath and nodded his head. He said nothing more, but accepted the datachip being pressed into his hand. His other hand tightened around Zeb’s fingers — hard enough that it started to ache somewhat. 

Zeb didn’t care. The pain didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Sasha was being given a chance — to earn the right to be a free man at the end of the war, to have a life of his own choosing. Zeb couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around the man and squeezing him close, tucking his head under his chin.

“For now, Orrelios, you will be responsible for him while he is here,” Ga’haso said after a moment or so, catching their attention. “And for Ashla’s sake, take him to a hairdresser and a tailor. If he is to be present for our celebrations, then he will be presentable!”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Zeb said quickly, beaming at her from among the strands of dishevelled hair tickling his face. His ears wiggled. Zeb almost thought he could see the hint of a smile on her wrinkled face as he added quietly, “Your kindness won’t be forgotten.”

Ga’haso waved a hand in dismissal.

Zeb surged to his feet and pulled Sasha with him. Excitement washed through him as he tugged the man out into the corridor, Chava following behind with an amused smile, using her staff as a crutch as usual. Zeb wrapped a warm arm around Sasha and tugged him close to his side, his heart clenching as the man slid an arm around his waist in return and seemed to emerge from his thoughts and emotions enough to give him a strained smile.

The Honour Guards followed them out of the palace, but kept their distance.

Once the three of them stepped outside the palace gates, Chava said warmly, “Gron is waiting for me in our speeder not too far from here. How about we get the tailor and hairdresser taken care of and then we can head back to the house for some dinner? We’ve got a pig slow-cooking.”

“Well?” Zeb glanced down at Sasha and squeezed him a little. “How about it?”

“I’d...I’d like that.” Sasha dragged in a breath and then steadied himself as he nodded. He withdrew from Zeb a little, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin in an attempt to seem more like his usual self. “Dinner sounds good to me. You...ah...must be Chava.”

“I am and I’ve waited to meet the Warrior for a long time.”

“People keep calling me that.” Sasha huffed and Zeb grimaced. “I don’t know what it means.”

“You will.” Chava smiled and poked his shoulder with the head of her staff — and Zeb rubbed his forehead when Sasha almost jumped out of his skin at the unexpected touch. Sasha retreated back towards him without an ounce of thought or hesitation as Chava continued. “You and I have much to discuss. But that can wait. Errands and sustenance first! It won’t be long until the sun sets and the businesses start closing down for the night. Come, come.” 

Zeb shook his head and sighed as the elder Lasat toddled off. Sometimes, he wondered what made him so fond of her, when she did things like this. But he shook his thoughts off when Sasha reached for him and he allowed the man to curl a hand around his elbow, allowing him to depend on him once more.

Visiting the tailor took almost half an hour. 

Sasha stood still and silent unless prompted to move as the tailor took his measurements with care, muttering about small and fragile humans all the while. Hearing the Lasat mutter such things seemed to bring a more genuine, more relaxed smile to his face after the stressful meeting with the Queen as Zeb watched from nearby, his fur rippling and his ears pricked with nervous excitement.

A large part of him couldn’t wait to see how Sasha might look in the traditional robes of Lira San.

A smaller part of him hoped the man would wear purple. 

His colour.

His ears flicked and warmth bloomed in his chest at the thought.

With the assurance that the robes would be complete in time for the opening ceremony, Zeb and Sasha continued to the nearest hairdresser, who’d been about to start the process of winding down before spotting their approach. The immediate look of scandalised horror at the sight of Sasha’s unkempt beard and dishevelled hair almost made Zeb snort with amusement.

A fond smile curled his lips when Sasha fidgeted with embarrassment as the hairdresser almost dragged him through the door, commenting about the horrendous state of his hair and how he couldn’t let such a thing continue for another minute. 

Zeb remained close to him. He held his hand to reassure Sasha of his continued presence as the hairdresser washed his hair and beard with absolute care, using his best supplies to soften out the locks.

The mutton chops soon returned.

Silently, Zeb thanked the Ashla. 

The hair, however, was kept long, but trimmed to as fine an edge as possible.

When Sasha rose from the chair finally, his expression unsure, the man shined like a new credit and Zeb couldn’t stop a small purr from escaping as he admired the tumble of soft curling hair above those familiar shoulders. Zeb itched to push his fingers through those locks, to feel them soft and light against his palms, to graze his claws against that delicate scalp.

Sasha flushed as though he could feel the weight of his gaze, his urges.

His scent sharpened with something sweet.

Zeb inhaled a deep mouthful and swallowed thickly, all too aware of the amused looks the hairdresser was giving them both. He rose from his chair and paid the other Lasat — and gave him a good tip for remaining open longer than usual — before seizing Sasha and pulling him outside, ignoring the soft chuckle that followed in their wake. 

Once the pair of them returned to the speeder, Gron drove them out of the city, the engine loud as the streets started to grow quieter.

Zeb luxuriated in the wind rippling through his fur and slid an arm around Sasha in the backseat as the man shivered from the growing chill as the evening approached. A crooked smile curled his lips as the man shuffled closer, right up against his side, taking advantage of the warmth on offer. He let one of his claws graze one of those tiny, delicate ears and wasn’t surprised when Sasha turned his face toward him in startled pleasure, those soft lips parting — an instant temptation. Zeb coughed to clear his throat and turned his face away, looking out at the dirt road winding out ahead of them. 

Trees of various shades blurred past them. 

Finally, Gron slowed the speeder as a handful of familiar cottages emerged from the growing shadows as the sun set below the trees, sliding the vehicle in alongside the perimeter fence that reached the waist of an average Lasat and encircled the first cottage in the cluster. It had been built for Chava and Gron — her grandnephew — not long after the three of them first set foot on Lira San and were granted refuge. It was a handsome cottage, a soft cream in colour, with dark slates and windowsills.

Window boxes bursting with vibrant life sat on the windowsills facing them. 

The other cottages were spread out along the dirt road. 

Zeb couldn’t help gazing down the road and sighing. He knew his own cottage was a brisk walk away, allowing Chava to get her exercise in as she tended to his vegetable garden and chickens on his behalf. He knew she took a percentage of the profits from selling his produce for herself and he didn’t begrudge her a single Lira Sani credit. It was a small price to ensure there was something to come back to, after all. Zeb turned to Sasha and smiled as he wondered what the man would think of his property, of the beginnings of a home waiting for him at the end of the war.

Sasha seemed to sense him looking at him. 

“Yes?”

“Nothin’.” His smile deepened. “Feelin’ better?”

“Some,” Sasha answered quietly, allowing Zeb to help him out of the speeder.

“I’m glad.” Without thinking, Zeb ducked in to brush a kiss against his cheek. And then he realised what he’d done and glanced around surreptitiously, hoping none of the neighbours happened to be looking out their window. Even in the growing darkness, a Lasat could see well enough. A wave of relief washed through him when he realised no one had seen him bestow such affection aside from Chava and Gron — neither of whom seemed to care as the door to the cottage was unlocked and the pair of them stepped inside, one after the other. Zeb captured his hand and squeezed lightly, murmuring, “C’mon. Let’s head inside.”

The inside of the cottage was warm and inviting, and a small stove in the living room radiated a comfortable heat that brought sleeping tookas and a glass of warm bantha milk to mind as Zeb closed the front door behind himself and Sasha.

A small handful of holophotos decorated the walls in the hall.

It was just as he remembered from the last time Chava brought him home for dinner.

Zeb led Sasha into the kitchen — a cosy, but serviceable space, where herbs hung from the rafters amid a collection of pots and pans.

Gron diced fresh vegetables at the countertop, the knife comfortable in his hand. 

Once Sasha was seated at the table, Zeb helped Chava heave the slow-cooked pig from the oven with a pair of skewers and set it down on the waiting platter, which was garnished with sliced citrus fruits and salad. The scent of the pig was heavenly, wafting around the room with ease. 

Several stomachs made their hunger known at once, but none louder than Sasha.

The man flushed with embarrassment as Chava chuckled and patted his face with her wizened hand. 

“Don’t worry,” Chava said kindly, her gaze twinkling brightly, “you’ll be fed well tonight. You might even need a wheelbarrow to leave. You’ll be eager to come back again in the future, I’m sure. A good meal is one of the greatest pleasures in the galaxy, I find.”

“You shouldn’t touch him without warnin’,” Zeb chided as he carried the platter to the table and set it down in the middle. “Ya can tell he’s blind.”

“Oh, pish.” Chava waved a dismissive hand. “He has a connection with the Ashla. I can tell.”

“I haven’t been using it here.” Sasha spoke quietly, fidgeting with his sleeves all the while. “I didn’t want to make people uncomfortable. I’d rather them be secure in the knowledge that I can’t pass information about their streets, or the palace, to outsiders.”

“Oh. Well. That’s considerate!”

“If...if I survive to be trialled at the end of the war, and if I earn mercy, then I...I will start to use the Force while I’m here. For now,” Sasha continued softly, “I’m content to need a guide to get around.”

The conversation was disrupted when Gron began softening the vegetables in the skillet with a hiss of oil over a hot hob, humming to himself. A few minutes later, he added herbs and spices and a splash of cool water, combining the various scents into a sweet and tantalising aroma that joined the scent of cooked pig and made a mouth-watering combination. 

Zeb inhaled a mouthful and saw Sasha do the same.

It wasn’t long until the four of them were seated at the table, their plates heaped with food and their glasses filled with a deep wine.

Zeb grinned in amusement when Sasha exhaled after tasting the wine, realising just how strong it was compared to the wines he was used to. He nudged his leg under the table and Sasha nudged him back with a small smile, the tails of his blindfold stark and familiar against his loose locks.

“So,” Sasha said ten minutes or so later, his lips glistening and his cheeks flushed from the wine, “tell me about the Warrior. What is it and what does it have to do with me? Because I’m tired of being in the dark about it.”

“The Warrior,” Chava answered slowly, carefully, her brow furrowing deeply, “is a figure that was foretold millennia ago. He is a crucial part of several prophecies, though the first was the most important. The others could never come to pass without it. He and two others are the reason our people found refuge on this planet. You’re the Warrior. Garazeb is the Child and Hondo Ohnaka was the Fool. Without the convergence of all three, we wouldn’t be sitting here now.”

Zeb glanced at Sasha.

Sasha frowned and sat in silence for several minutes.

“You were the survivors that Ohnaka told me about. The ones I...hunted.”

“Yes,” Chava said simply, setting aside her fork and knife after a moment. She gazed at him across the table. “You chased us across the Outer Rim Territories without relent and drove us into Wild Space. You thought we’d perished.”

“Until the Spectres showed up again.” Sasha stabbed a morsel of pig with his fork. His lips twisted. “You’d survived and escaped from the Empire. But I couldn’t figure out how. The Imperial ship I was on was almost ripped apart when we tried to give chase through that collapsed star cluster. I’m relieved no one perished that day, but I wasn’t pleased about being thwarted at the time. It was a fierce blow to my pride.”

Zeb couldn’t stop a bubble of laughter from rising in his chest.

“Shut up,” Sasha grumbled. But the beginnings of a smile eased the twist from his lips. He popped his morsel into his mouth and chewed for a few moments before swallowing, adding curiously, “You referred to Ohnaka in the past tense, but used the present to refer to Garazeb and I.”

“The Fool appears in one prophecy, but no others,” Chava explained as she sipped from her glass of wine and a frown furrowed her brow, deepening her wrinkles. She studied Sasha. “The Child and Warrior appear in several and often together. For a time, I thought we’d failed. When Garazeb told me about what happened with Atollon and the aborted Fulcrum message...I feared the worst. But the Ashla has been watching over us and now the Child and Warrior are reunited. I have great hopes for the future of the Republic and for Lasan.” 

Zeb blinked in hurt surprise at the mention of his home-planet.

Sasha froze.

“Lasan is lost.” Zeb bowed his head and focused on his dinner. “We have a safe refuge here.”

“One day, the Empire will fall and we’ll have a chance to liberate our home.”

“What remains of it.” Zeb shovelled a forkful of vegetables into his mouth and chewed aggressively, an old rage rising to the surface as memories flashed through his mind. Memories of smoking rubble and scorched earth. Memories of ash on the wind. “You know what the Empire does to the planets it conquers, Chava. Its natural resources were stripped. Its caves...decimated...for what purpose, I don’t even know. And it wouldn’t surprise me to learn that a labour camp or somethin’ was erected there, poisonin’ the earth with the hand of the Bogan. Little of what we loved will have survived. I do plan to go back there one day, but I don’t have high hopes for what I’ll find.”

“With time and patience, even a barren land can be brought back to life. You know that.”

“I won’t be livin’ there, even if it does come to back to life.” Zeb shook his head. “I can’t.”

“I’m...going to step outside for a bit.” Sasha rose from his chair, his face pale. “Excuse me.”

Zeb made no attempt to stop him. He just watched him go briefly, a conflicting pair of aches settling in his chest and gut. His lips twisted around a silent snarl and he dropped his attention back to his plate, shovelling more food into his mouth. He focused on eating, avoiding the pointed glances from Chava.

Several minutes passed in strained silence.

Sasha didn’t come back.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Y'all are fortunate. I've been without wifi for FOUR WHOLE DAYS, but the repairman showed up this afternoon, so that means y'all get an update on time! :D

Zeb found Sasha standing under one of the trees behind the cottage, inhaling the scent of nature and running his fingertips over the rough bark. He didn’t ask whether the man was alright. He didn’t draw him into an embrace, though part of him wished to, but he did step up beside him and breathe in the natural scents around them with him. Zeb allowed their fingers to brush together amid the dense shadows that surrounded them.

“C’mon.” Zeb gave him a light nudge. “Let’s retire for the night.”

“Retire where,” Sasha asked with a sigh.

“I...ah...have a cottage down the road.”

“Oh.” Sasha turned towards him and offered a slight smile. “I was worried we’d have to spend the night here. With Chava. I’m not sure I’m prepared for that.”

“Nah.” Zeb started walking and Sasha followed suit almost immediately, his hand slipping around his elbow, warm and familiar. Too familiar. Guilt frothed in his stomach. But he didn’t shrug it off. “We were all granted places to live. A few of us have cottages out here in the country, but some chose to have apartments in Doross.”

“You didn’t pick Doross?”

“No,” Zeb answered softly, an ache flaring in his chest again. Without thinking, he rubbed at it with his free hand. “Back on Lasan...I...I used to imagine settlin’ down in the country, havin’ a family, raisin’ chickens and the like. When the war is over, I’m goin’ to retire out here. Lead a quiet life. I’ve had enough of fightin’.”

Silence fell between them as Zeb led Sasha through the gate and past the small vegetable gardens growing on either side of the gravel path leading up to the front door. The gravel crunched beneath their feet with each step. Finally, Zeb reached the door and unlocked it with the password he’d selected as he tapped at the control panel before leading Sasha inside, the lights blinking on to illuminate the small space in front of them.

Zeb exhaled at the sight. He hadn’t seen his cottage in months and he’d forgotten how little of himself existed in the walls. Sure, he’d selected the furnishings and he’d painted the walls personally, but there was little that made it clear that the space belonged to him. His most treasured possessions were aboard the _Ghost_. And though a few holophotos of the Spectres hung from the walls, his cottage didn’t feel like a home. Zeb couldn’t help wondering whether it would ever feel like a home to him.

Perhaps when the war was over, he’d be able to add more of himself to the space....

“Garazeb?”

Zeb blinked and roused himself from his thoughts before turning to Sasha and clapping him on the shoulder lightly, stating, “Sorry; I was just lost in thought for a minute. Feel free to connect with the Ashla while we’re here. No harm in knowin’ how to get around the house.”

“Alright.” Sasha frowned at him. “Is there a guest room I can retire to?”

“No.” Zeb rubbed the back of his neck. Embarrassment rippled through his fur. “Not all the rooms are furnished. S’just the master bed for now.”

“Oh. I can sleep on the couch…”

“Don’t be stupid.” Zeb couldn’t help huffing in irritation as his claws whispered through the fur on the back of his neck. His ears flicked. “The bed is designed to fit two Lasats comfortably; we’ll have more than enough room. ‘Sides, we’ve slept together before. More than once. Ya don’t want to share with me or somethin’?”

“It’s not that.” Sasha stepped forward and touched his chest lightly, his fingers spreading over his heart. “I just thought...after what happened at dinner, you’d prefer me to keep some distance. I know it wasn’t comfortable. Talking about what happened to Lasan.”

“We’ll be fine,” Zeb answered quietly, a bubble of surprised warmth blooming behind the hand resting on his chest. He stepped forward as well and allowed himself to tangle his fingers in that cascade of soft hair, watching the various hues shift and shimmer in the light. He pressed their brows together. “Just give me a few minutes and then I’ll be along.”

Sasha drew in a breath and then nodded before departing, slipping from his grasp.

Zeb watched him go, watched those twin tails swing between his shoulder blades as he moved towards the bedroom. He watched him disappear from view, casting one last tentative smile back at him. Zeb rubbed at the ache in his chest again. 

“This is wrong,” Zeb whispered to himself as he slipped into the living room and sank down into the armchair beside the cold fireplace, the cushions pillowing his weight. He scrubbed a hand over his face and stared at the couch nestled against the wall to his left. “You’re such a fuckin’ idiot. Ya should’ve just let him take the couch.”

_You like sleeping beside him too much._

There was that voice at the back of his mind again. Small and tentative, but hopeful. And a constant nuisance from the moment he’d brought Sasha back to Yavin Four, whispering soft words whenever Sasha smiled at him or laughed at one of his dumb jokes or curled his fingers around his elbow, _needing_ him in a fashion that was so foreign and so alluring.

Zeb turned his head and scowled into the cold fireplace. He tried to ignore the voice. He braced his elbow against the arm of the chair and rested his face against his curled fist as he reminded himself that he wasn’t supposed to want the man now standing in his bedroom and preparing for bed. His lashes crushed against his cheeks a moment later when he realised he could hear Sasha undressing in the distance, fabric pooling on the cool wooden flooring, and then he heard one of his drawers sliding open.

His clothes.

Sasha was going to wear his clothes. 

To bed. 

Zeb swallowed thickly, his heart thundering and skipping beats in his chest as he realised how domestic that idea was. Sasha had worn his clothes to bed before, but the circumstances had been dire. This was different. This was...something else, something he wasn’t sure how to feel about. His throat constricting rapidly, Zeb rose quickly, hoping to stop the man before it was too late. Zeb closed the distance between himself and the master bedroom in a few short and agonising seconds, opening the door in time to see the hem of a tunic tumble into place.

Zeb froze.

Sasha startled and whirled around to face him. The hem of the tunic he’d borrowed shifted around his thighs. A spider-web of pinkish scars wrapped around bare legs and arms and continued beneath the tunic — remnants from the electrical charges he’d been subjected to on Lothal. Sasha wrapped his arms around himself. 

Zeb had never seen him so naked before.

Not even in their shared quarters on Yavin Four.

His blood rushed south fast enough to make him a little lightheaded. 

“Uh.” His brain short-circuited as his gaze dropped to those long, strong legs, watching the shift of light across the fine hair dusted across pale skin. Several tantalising, forbidden images flashed through his mind and threatened to steal the breath from his chest. Zeb coughed to clear his throat. “Makin’ yerself at home, I see.”

“Well.” Sasha flushed and gestured at the floor. “I didn’t want to leave a trail of sand in the bed.”

“Oh.” Zeb dropped his gaze, spotting the scattering of sand across his wooden floor, strewn amongst the abandoned clothes from their adventure on Dennogra. An awkward laugh escaped him. “ _Oh_.”

“You thought I intended something else?”

“I don’t know what I thought.”

“I’m sorry, if I overstepped. I can change back —”

“It’s fine,” Zeb said quickly, almost blurting the words as he struggled to ignore the voice telling him to close the distance between them. To grab the man and kiss him senseless, kiss him until he couldn’t form words, kiss him until those pale knees buckled and he didn’t have a choice but to heave the man into his arms, to let those legs wrap around his waist. Zeb swallowed and pushed himself to say, his voice cracking slightly, “Ya can wear whatever while we’re here. I don’t mind.”

An awkward silence settled between them.

Sasha shuffled and turned his face away, arms tightening around himself. 

Zeb hesitated for a long moment before stepping inside and allowing the door to slide closed behind him. He crossed to the chest of drawers and rummaged until he found a loose pair of shorts. Normally, he slept naked at the cottage, but that wasn’t an option now that he’d be sharing with Sasha. Zeb moved around to his usual side of the bed and started undressing, and did his best to ignore the sightless stare that burned holes into his back as he changed into his shorts. 

Even using the Ashla to see, Sasha still couldn’t see him. He couldn’t see the expression on his face or the tension in his shoulders. He couldn’t see the throb of his hidden half-hard cock or the growing slick that matted the fur around his sheath.

Slick that shouldn’t even be there.

Not from just seeing a pair of damned legs. 

Zeb scowled as he pulled the shorts over his hips finally, hiding the evidence from himself. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to see the evidence of how Sasha affected him. It was one thing to care about him and wish to keep the man safe. It was quite another to want...that. Zeb climbed into bed without a word and curled up on his side, facing the wall and ignoring the awkwardness welling between them as Sasha did the same behind him.

When sleep came, it was a welcome relief.

* * *

In the morning, just as the sun was rising, Zeb woke to an armful of sleeping Sasha and didn’t know what to do. He stared at the blankets, which had been kicked to the foot of the bed. He stared at the cascade of curling hair, which shifted with each breath that escaped him. He stared at the hint of a bare shoulder peeking out from beneath his tunic, at the scarred skin that seemed so warm and inviting, tempting him with ease. He stared at the curve of a strong hip hidden beneath a pair of black boxers, backside slotting against his pelvis almost like it belonged there, pressing warm and firm against his sheath. Zeb squeezed his lashes against his cheeks and exhaled slowly, a little dizzy, and started to extricate himself with care.

Sasha snuffled and mumbled his displeasure, but didn’t wake. 

Zeb watched him turn over and press his face into the pillows, inhaling deeply, as though his scent were a soothing balm. His heart aching, he drew the blanket up to his shoulders, ensuring Sasha wouldn’t be bereft of warmth without him. He couldn’t stop himself from running a hand over that soft hair, allowing the strands to caress his palm and fingers.

Too tempting.

Sasha was far too tempting.

Zeb dressed quietly, pulling a tunic and a pair of leggings from one of his drawers with care. He checked his datapad then and wasn’t surprised to see a message from Chava waiting, alerting him to the survivors’ circle taking place that morning at the temple in Doross and suggesting that he introduce Sasha in a controlled environment. He sighed and checked the chronometer; he supposed there was no better place to confess his conflict than in the temple, within the forgiving and welcoming embrace of the Ashla. But there was an hour or so before he’d need to leave the cottage.

Taking some comfort from that knowledge, Zeb retrieved his wicker basket and watering can from the closet in the hall and stepped out of the house, inhaling the crisp air as the sun climbed higher, brightening the hues of dark blue to something softer and adding hints of orange and pink. He filled the watering can from the tap around the side of the cottage before heading to the coop at the back.

His chickens were still sound asleep.

Carefully, Zeb lifted one after another and collected the eggs from the nests, a small smile curling his lips. His girls were a productive bunch as usual. He ran a gentle hand over a few of their small heads before leaving the coop, closing and latching the door with care.

He watered his vegetables next.

It wouldn’t be long until his vegetables were ripe for harvesting.

Unfortunately, Zeb wouldn’t be there. But he knew Chava would take care of them. He knew she’d harvest them and Gron would prepare a few to be frozen before Chava took the remainder to sell in the city, pocketing some of the profit for herself and lodging the rest into his bank account on his behalf. He was earning a neat sum from his garden and his coop and it would be a pleasant nest egg to come back to when the war was over, if he survived.

If he didn’t survive....

Well.

He’d named Sabine and Ezra his next of kin. 

His nest egg wouldn’t go to waste.

Once he was finished watering, Zeb sighed and headed back into the cottage, stowing his watering can back in the closet before taking the wicker basket into the kitchen. With gentle care, he cleaned the eggs and set aside ten for breakfast. He took the remainder and slotted them into the small, lined box waiting on the countertop, which he’d bought during his first visit to Lira San.

It felt like a lifetime ago. 

Zeb washed his hands and started breakfast then. He retrieved some diced vegetables from the freezer and heated them in a large skillet with a splash of oil. He cracked the eggs into a jug meanwhile and whisked easily, an old tune emerging from his memories. He couldn’t help humming the tune even as a sad smile curled his lips. Just hearing the tune again brought his eldest brother, Bas, to mind. He couldn’t help remembering Bas singing it while scooping him into his arms and throwing him into the air, making him scream and laugh with enthusiasm. He couldn’t help remembering the soft strength in his arms, the warm affection in his purr, and the gentle curve of his smile as Bas encouraged him to be brave and bold — to keep the Ashla warm and bright in his heart even when he was scared. His heart hurt to think of him. Zeb blinked and ignored the growing sting as he added herbs and spices to the whisked eggs while he waited for the vegetables to sizzle and soften. 

He heard movement in the distance just as he poured the egg mixture into the skillet.

A few moments later, Sasha entered the kitchen behind him.

“Morning,” the man said quietly, a smile in his voice. “That smells wonderful.”

“Should taste good too,” Zeb answered. A small smile chased the sadness from his own face as he glanced over his shoulder to see Sasha still wearing the tunic from the night before, looking soft and sleep-rumpled. Vulnerable. His locks were frizzed from rolling across the pillows. The hurt in his chest shifted to something softer, sweeter, as he looked at Sasha. “Sleep well?”

“I don’t know how I managed to, but I did.”

“Must be the mild climate around here,” Zeb answered as he returned his attention to the skillet again. If his heart leapt at the unsolicited thought of Sasha sleeping better because the pair of them had slept together, that was his own business. 

“Must be.” Soft footfalls padded forward and stopped at his elbow. Sasha leaned in close and inhaled a deep mouthful of seasoned air, his expression melting with pleasure. “I can’t wait to eat that. Whatever it is.”

“S’an omelette.” His fur rippled with mild embarrassment. “I don’t have cheese though. I’m not here often enough to have a stocked fridge.”

“What does that matter?” Sasha touched his elbow. “It’ll be delicious regardless. _You_ made it.”

His heart twisted in his chest at the words. His ears twitched and flicked. Zeb tried to focus on cooking as those gentle fingers caressed the curve of his elbow, so familiar...and so loving. His lashes fluttered. Zeb almost dropped the skillet as he pulled it from the hob before he managed to set it aside and step away, dislodging the touch and ignoring how bereft he felt afterwards.

It wasn’t long until two steaming plates were set down on the small dining table.

Zeb tried to tell himself that he wasn’t nervous as Sasha plucked his fork and knife from the table and leaned over his plate slightly, inhaling the scent once more. He tried to tell himself that his gaze wasn’t fixed on the tines of the fork as Sasha cut into his smaller portion of the omelette, scooped a small morsel comfortably, and then eased it into his mouth with a soft sigh of appreciation. He tried to tell himself that he didn’t feel a knot unwind in his stomach as he dropped his attention to his own plate to save himself from the embarrassment of being caught staring at that damned mouth. 

Neither of them spoke. But the soft noises that escaped Sasha spoke volumes on their own.

Zeb couldn’t help grinning down at his plate, something akin to euphoria swelling through him as the unspoken compliment wound through his veins, flooding him with warmth. His toes curled against the floor and his claws threatened to gouge into the wood. He couldn’t help glancing at the man seated opposite him and reaching for the hand that came to rest on the table as Sasha set his fork and knife aside, a satisfied and almost blissful expression on his face. 

Sasha paused at the touch and then smiled as their palms slotted together like puzzle pieces. 

Zeb stroked the back of his hand with his thumb.

“Your bed was comfortable,” Sasha said eventually, the ridges of his cheeks warming as he ducked his head to focus his sightless attention on their joined hands. His scent sweetened and Zeb couldn’t help drawing in a mouthful. “I felt like I was sleeping on a cloud. And those sheets were...exquisite. I don’t know how else to describe them.” 

“I...I like comfort. I like soft things.”

“Me too.” Sasha raised his head again and his smile deepened with a hint of something soft and secretive. His other hand came to rest against his wrist and those long, slender fingers began stroking, teasing through his fur. “And warm things. It helps me feel safe.”

Zeb pinched his lip between his fangs at the insinuation and ignored the sharp sting of pain as his gaze dropped to focus on those fingers, those sinful things that made being near Sasha so difficult at times. He was certain the man could feel his racing pulse when his fingertips paused over the pulse point. Zeb ripped his gaze back up and swallowed thickly, his ears twitching relentlessly, alive with more emotions than he could cope with.

“I’m leavin’.” The words blurted out of him and doused the moment like a bucket of frostbitten water. His stomach twisted as Sasha retracted his hand without a word and rebuilt the distance between them. Zeb scrambled to explain himself. “I mean...I...uh...have a meetin’ with some survivors this mornin’. In the temple. In Doross. Ya could come with me, but I don’t think that would be wise. Right now. I...I have to talk to them about some stuff.”

“About me.” Sasha turned his head. His jaw clenched hard enough to make a tendon appear in his cheek for a moment before he swallowed and returned his attention to Zeb, something akin to heartbreak flashing across his features before it vanished behind a mask of stoicism. “I understand.”

Almost as soon as he saw heartbreak flash across those familiar features, Zeb felt his stomach twist with pain. His ears drooped in an instant. The instinct to pull the man into his arms, to purr and rub soothing kisses against those mutton chops, was almost overwhelming. Briefly, Zeb thought about ignoring the meeting and remaining in the cottage in an attempt to soothe the hurt Sasha felt.

But he couldn’t.

Zeb knew he’d have to speak with the other survivors at some point. He knew he’d have to open up about his feelings, about the conflict within him — the aching need to be with the man sitting opposite him now and the dread of harming his people in doing so. He knew he’d have to figure out what he was going to do: whether he would step back and whisper a soft farewell to the man that made his stomach flutter or embrace him and damn the consequences. He knew he’d have to figure it out sooner rather than later. Zeb knew he couldn’t keep doing this, couldn’t keep growing closer to Sasha without some idea of what he’d do in the future.

It wouldn’t be right. 

It wouldn’t be fair.

Sasha didn’t deserve to have his heart strung along. He’d been through enough torture from Thrawn and the Empire without Zeb dragging him through such devastation.

“There’s no shame in bein’ scared of the outcome,” Zeb said finally, curling his fists to prevent himself from reaching out again. Sasha didn’t need him running his hands all over him when there was no guarantee the meeting would go well. There was no guarantee that talking about how he felt would go well. There was too much pain and anger in the survivors’ circle. Zeb knew that all too well. His voice grew strained as he continued. “I am too. It won’t be easy, talkin’ about how I feel. It never has been. But I have to do this.”

“I know,” Sasha answered quietly, his voice wavering a fraction. He rose and stepped back from the table, a visible tremor in his hands before Sasha hid them behind his back. His spine straightened to full attention with shoulders squared. His chin lifted. It was a thin mask that did little to hide his pain from Zeb, who could smell it in the air as it rolled from him in several thick waves. “You should get going. You don’t want to be late.”

Sasha turned on his heel then and left the kitchen without another word.

Zeb dropped his gaze. He tried to swallow and almost choked on the waves of anger and shame that washed through him within a few short moments of each other. Shame that it hurt to watch Sasha go, shame that he’d hurt Sasha. Anger that life had to be so painful and complicated. That he couldn’t just care for someone else, someone that hadn’t worked for the Empire, that hadn’t helped them annihilate his people. Zeb rose from his chair roughly, grabbing the used plates and cutlery, hating himself and hating the universe as he carried them to the sink.

His vision blurred as he ran the hot tap. 

Zeb dumped the ware into the dish and dashed the back of his hand across his face.

“I don’t fuckin’ deserve this,” Zeb whispered angrily, opening the cupboard beneath the sink and reaching for the sanitisation liquid for the ware. He squirted a dollop beneath the running tap and watched it foam in an attempt to calm himself. It didn’t work in the slightest. Zeb couldn’t help glancing at the ceiling, couldn’t help the rumbling growl that escaped him as he opened his connection to the Ashla — to the current that moved through him and the room around him. He couldn’t help snarling, “If this pain is part of some fuckin’ plan...I don’t want it. I deserve some fuckin’ peace and happiness after all the fuckin’ shit I’ve been through. Ya hear me?!”

The Ashla didn’t respond. 

It just remained warm and constant as it ebbed and flowed.

Zeb sighed and closed his connection without another word. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to happen when he opened his connection. He wasn’t sure what answers he’d expected to receive. Zeb bowed his head and focused on the ware, on the water against his skin and the weight of the scrub brush in his grip, on the tickle of bubbles blossoming and popping against the base of his wrists.

It was mindless, emotionless work. 

It numbed him to the anger and shame after a short while.

Once he was finished washing up, Zeb dried the ware and returned them to their cupboards. He thought about going to the bedroom and wrapping his arms around Sasha. He thought about rubbing a protective scent into those loose locks. Zeb went outside instead and moved around the side of the cottage, retrieving his speeder-bike from its protective cover and guiding it past the perimeter fence. 

His ears drooping once more, Zeb cast a pained look at the cottage and then straddled the vehicle, bringing it to life with a roaring growl from the engine.

A wave of displaced air rippled through the grass as Zeb took off.

* * *

Alexsandr sat on the edge of the bed and listened to the sound of a speeder-bike disappearing into the distance. He swallowed around the growing lump in his throat. His fingers clawed into the sleeves of his borrowed tunic as he hugged himself and tried to hold the rolling waves of anguish inside, tried to drown in it without ever leaving it escape.

Garazeb would end whatever this was between them soon. 

Before the sun even reached its zenith.

Garazeb would speak to the other survivors and realise that he deserved better. 

Alexsandr wasn’t surprised. Not when he let himself think about the moments he’d shared with Garazeb since he’d arrived at Yavin Four. Moments that were too good to last. Too good to be true. Moments that were far more than he’d ever deserved. 

His attention shifted to the datachip he’d set on the bedside locker the night before.

Was it even worth it?

What was the point in attempting to earn his freedom when there wouldn’t be a Lasat waiting for him at the other side? What was the point in ripping open the old and festering wounds he’d hidden inside himself when Garazeb wouldn’t be there to want him afterwards?

Alexsandr swallowed and rose abruptly, his nails digging into his arms hard enough to hurt through the sleeves of his tunic. He turned and dressed quickly, pulling on the clothes he’d worn for the mission to Dennogra. Alexsandr shoved his emotions down. 

He had to leave. 

He had to leave before Garazeb ripped the heart straight out of his chest.

Ripping his own heart out would hurt less.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Don't worry, y'all! The chapter will have a positive ending ;)
> 
> ALSO: I wanna say a BIG thank you to Maclunkee on twitter, who made this [lovely fanart](https://twitter.com/maclunkee/status/1349140298711113729) of Ashla!Kallus from the dream sequence in chapter 17! Please show them some support and love for their art because I literally squealed when I saw it.

Zeb mounted the top of the steps leading into the temple and swallowed when the colourful memorial mosaic of the ancients stared down at him from the distant domed ceiling, familiar surnames curling beneath their figures in neat Lira Sani script. 

Alab.

Tapal.

Orrelios.

Dozens of names he recognised.

Volunteers that had left in search of aid during a cruel war and never came home.

Why, he didn’t know.

The reasons were lost to time.

Zeb released a breath and stared up at the distant figure of Orrelios, at the features that seemed so familiar and so foreign. He could remember the first time he’d walked into the temple, the first time he’d seen those names inscribed on the ceiling, further proof that he’d found the birthplace of his people. He could remember the gentle hands of the priestesses welcoming him into their embrace, wrapping him in the warmth of his people and the warmth of the Ashla. Swallowing once more, Zeb tore his attention from the mosaic and stepped deeper into the temple.

He paused at the shrine at the heart of the temple.

The shrine was a familiar sight and occupied a third of the available space. It was large and impressive, white stone swirling to represent the curl of waves and a handsome stone tree in the middle, leaves of gold and silver reaching high. Within a small hollow in the tree, there sat a burning brazier beneath a dish of scented oil that released a comforting aroma. It was almost identical to the shrine he’d knelt before as he took his vows to serve Mirazet Alab, the Queen of Lasan.

His heart thundering, Zeb took a moment to kneel before the shrine now, leaning forward until his forehead and palms touched the ancient stone floor, welcoming the chill. He released a slow breath and opened his connection to the Ashla as his frame relaxed into the familiar pose. For several moments, Zeb remained focused on his connection to the Ashla and to the universe at large, an almost endless list of his fears and hopes spilling into the open current that swirled through and around him as he asked for the strength and courage to face his people.

For help in deciding what to do. 

Finally, Zeb rose to his feet in silence and moved past the shrine to the staircase that descended below in a long spiral. Unlike other buildings in the city, the temple didn’t use standard methods of illuminating its spaces. Torches hung from various sconces instead and cast a warm and natural glow across the stone around him. Zeb followed the familiar path to a small chamber beneath the shrine, where Chava was in the middle of arranging a circle of chairs with the help of a few priestesses — who cast welcoming glances and smiles at Zeb upon seeing him.

Much like Zeb, Chava was retired from service, but her former position as High Priestess garnered respect from the priestesses serving in the Lira Sani temples and members of the general public alike. She received respectful nods and smiles wherever she went. 

It was comforting to know that some things in the universe hadn’t changed.

Chava looked up as he approached and then frowned.

“He didn’t want to come?”

“I asked him not to,” Zeb answered quietly, glancing at the priestesses as the last few chairs were settled into place. The group offered him a polite nod almost as one and then left the chamber, leaving Chava and Zeb to wait for the other survivors alone. “I didn’t want to upset people.”

Chava clucked her tongue at him and shook her head.

Zeb said nothing, but the urge to defend himself was sudden and strong. He shook his own head and settled into one of the chairs — as far from Chava as possible. Close to the door. In case he needed to make a quick exit from the survivors’ circle. 

Several minutes of uncomfortable silence passed as Chava studied him.

Finally, the door opened behind him and another survivor stepped into the room.

Zeb recognised the face, though the name escaped him for a moment or so. It wasn’t someone he’d known on Lasan personally, but a refugee he’d found deep in a cave on Tatooine, more than twice his age and hunched over a campfire, green gaze hollow with an ache that went deep and the furred skin around his ears wrinkled from constant drooping.

Kren.

That was the name.

Varad Kren.

Zeb acknowledged him with a nod and the elder Lasat dipped his head in return.

It wasn’t long until more survivors began to arrive, trickling into the chamber in small groups of two and three, until fifteen Lasats were gathered into the room. Several nods of acknowledgement and whispered greetings were exchanged.

Zeb watched them all.

Zoral offered a small smile to him when she stepped into the chamber nervously, Gron at her side and supporting her with a gentle arm. She’d draped the hood of her cloak low over her naked face and concealed as much of her frame as possible, hiding her lack of fur with a sense of shame that threatened to split his heart straight down the middle. As other survivors began looking at her curiously, attempting to get a better look at her face, Zoral curled in on herself as Gron helped her settle into one of the vacant chairs and tugged the edge of her hood even lower, casting her chin in shadow.

His ears drooped at the sight.

His vision blurred for the second time that morning.

Zeb swallowed his emotions as he watched Chava embrace the girl gently, murmuring soft words of love and welcome into her concealed ear. He watched as Zoral curled into her chest like a kit desperate for affection. Zeb watched Chava run a soothing hand between quaking shoulders for a moment and then looked away, dropping his attention to the idle drape of his hands over his thighs.

It wasn’t the first time he’d witnessed Chava comfort a survivor since he’d rediscovered Lira San. Whenever he arrived with a new refugee in tow, he witnessed them embrace at the following survivors’ circle. Supporting others through their grief and trauma had been the role of the High Priestess for centuries and that sense of compassion wasn’t something that faded with retirement from service. As another survivor, Chava was the first port of call for those who needed to give voices to their struggles. As someone who’d known Zoral personally, Chava would be invaluable to the girl now. 

Finally, Chava withdrew from Zoral with one soft kiss against her brow, through the cloak covering her face, respecting her need to hide from the group at large. The former High Priestess hobbled over to her own chair, settled carefully, and then offered them all a smile.

“Good morning,” Chava said kindly, her fingers curling around her staff. She tipped her head at each of them in turn. Her gaze lingered on Zoral for a moment and then on Varad. “I’m pleased to see some new faces joining us today, but I want it understood that no one is under obligation to speak up. You’re welcome to just be present. I’d like us all to be as comfortable as possible.”

There was a rumble of agreement from the gathered Lasats, several of them nodding. 

Zeb kept his head bowed as a beat of silence passed before one of the survivors started speaking, murmuring about a nightmare she’d had that morning, about the violent shakes she’d experienced and the cold sweats, the rip of fabric as she’d clawed at her blankets and screamed her anguish. No one said a word as her voice broke in several places, allowing her to catch her breath and continue, respecting her emotions and her need to speak about what she’d seen. 

What she’d relived. 

She was the first to speak.

But she wasn’t the last. 

Others began piping up one after another, mentioning incidents experienced in the last week or so with shaken or angered voices. Incidents of flashbacks triggered with certain smells, certain phrases, certain sensations, catapulting them back to the gruelling, devastating hours of the siege.

Zeb squeezed his lashes against his cheeks. He’d experienced such moments himself. More often than he could count since he’d been dragged from the rubble so long ago and with increasing fervour as the war with the Empire waged on and on. He’d experienced them even as he’d rescued Sasha from the complex on Lothal. Too easily, Zeb could remember the struggle to keep himself grounded in the present.

With each person that spoke, it became harder to open his mouth. It became harder to confess that he cared for someone who’d helped cause the trauma that resulted in these nightmares and flashbacks, these struggles to relax into life on Lira San. Guilt and shame and self-loathing washed through him in successive waves as the minutes trickled past and the words of his brethren whispered through his head.

“Captain…” Varad. That was Varad speaking. “You seem unwell.”

“I’m…” Zeb swallowed and sat up in his chair slowly, hesitantly, all too aware of the ring of concerned gazes fastening upon him — all but three, who knew something of his struggles. His feelings. Zeb couldn’t help ripping through the material of his leggings with his claws as he tried to keep himself calm. “I have...somethin’ I need to talk about. It...it won’t be welcome, but...it’s been eatin’ at me for months now.”

Something almost knowing flickered across Varad’s face for the briefest instant.

Zoral released a breath and bowed her head to stare at her knees.

Chava and Gron gazed at him with no small amount of compassion.

The others just gazed at him — open and curious, concerned. 

“I’ve...started to care about someone and I know I shouldn’t.” Zeb looked down at his claws and watched them curl through his fur, threatening the skin beneath. His heart twisted in his chest as he dragged in a breath and forced the words out one after another. “He...he wasn’t a good person. He used to work for the Empire, used to be one of their best agents before defectin’. His name is Alexsandr Kallus and he fought against our people on Lasan.”

Zeb heard the immediate recoil and his head snapped upward. He heard the sharp intake of breath ripple around the circle. He heard the violent scrape of chair legs against stone as four Lasats left the chamber immediately, darting past him without looking at him even once, an unbearable hurt twisting their familiar features. A fifth survivor rose from his chair slowly, his face twisting with a devastated rage, and the Lasat strode forward to spit in his face before leaving, slamming the door shut behind him with a resounding thud.

It wasn’t unexpected.

The visceral reaction to his confession. 

But feeling the spittle on his face made his vision blur with renewed shame. 

Zeb couldn’t help curling in on himself as the sudden silence echoed around him. He didn’t wipe the spittle from his face and he didn’t look at the others, focusing instead on fighting the rapid constriction of his throat as that shame burned through him like ice.

_You failed them again._

_You stabbed them in the back._

_You don’t deserve to be here._

The cold and unforgiving words thundered through his head. It was far more terrible than the unwanted and hopeful voice that whispered whenever he was with Sasha. It was a knife through the centre of his chest — one that twisted deep, its edge barbed and familiar.

Zeb jerked out of his chair and headed for the door. 

Varad stopped him in his tracks when he said gently, “You didn’t deserve that.”

“I agree,” Zoral said softly, her voice reaching him with ease. “We can’t help how we feel.”

“I didn’t mean to feel this way,” Zeb confirmed through a choking breath. “It just...happened.”

“Talk to us,” said another, hesitant and unsure. “You said he defected. Explain.”

Chava appeared at his side a moment later, her hands gentle as she urged him back to the circle, coaxing him into his chair. She remained close, sliding an arm around his shoulders and scenting the top of his head with gentle care, a soft purr rumbling up from her chest.

Zeb choked on another breath upon receiving the affectionate nuzzle from the woman who’d been like a second grandmother to him. He curled against Chava for the first time since he was a kit and shuddered before speaking, his explanation coming in broken words that whispered through the chamber, filled with fear and shame. He spoke of the fight in the escape pod over Geonosis, of strong hands that forced him to turn and face the ISB Agent head on. Hands that wouldn’t strike him from behind. Zeb spoke of the crash on the frozen moon and finding his opponent wounded.

He spoke of the anger that raged through him that day, the cruel threat that fell from his lips, and the subsequent promise that he wouldn’t hurt a wounded man. That he wanted to defeat him fair and square as a warrior should. And he spoke of looking at the ISB Agent through his connection with the Ashla and seeing that soft glimmer of white at his core, where the poison from the Bogan hadn’t reached.

Shock rippled through several survivors.

Now that he’d started talking, Zeb found he couldn’t stop. His explanation became a rush charged with emotion as he spoke of the hushed conversation he’d had in that frostbitten cavern before those beasts showed up to slaughter them. He spoke of the desperate attempt to escape, the _trust_ Agent Kallus had placed in him that day, and the dreadful moment the man had stood over him and he’d thought he was going to die.

And the surprise when he didn’t. 

The surprise when Agent Kallus shot the beast in the face and held out his hand. 

Zeb spoke for what felt like hours, but could have been minutes, his throat starting to ache. 

No one interrupted him.

Silence fell over the chamber once he stopped talking, his hand rising to curl around the base of his neck in an attempt to soothe the lingering ache. He didn’t dare look at the others. He just curled closer to Chava and inhaled her scent — so familiar and so comforting, letting him sink back to a simpler time when few things were terrible enough to stab him in the heart.

It was a welcome surprise when one of the survivors rose from their chair and approached to rest their hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly, murmuring, “You’ve given us much to think about. Don’t give up hope, Captain. Let us speak with the others. With time, perhaps things will change for the better.”

The survivor wiped the spittle from his face with a gentle hand and leaned down to press their brows together for a brief moment before leaving. Others followed suit a few moments later, some taking a moment to press a brow against his and others just dipping their heads in acknowledgment.

Finally, it was just him and Chava and Varad left in the chamber.

Varad moved to sit next to him and reached into his pocket to withdraw a small holodevice, a press of his thumb bringing the contents within to life. A faint blue projection of a Lasat hovered over the device, scarred face visible. The image wasn’t a Lasat he knew, but the scars were unmistakable — it was a mark of public shame, a punishment from the Queen of Lasan.

Zeb swallowed at the sight. 

“This was Bralin Drogas,” Varad said softly, his thumb stroking the holodevice with a tenderness that made Zeb uncomfortable. His breath hitched for a moment. “He and I met on the battlefield during the schism. We fought more times than I could ever count and still I fell in love with him.”

Varad stared at the projection for a long moment and then looked at Zeb, adding, “Bralin was a good man. He was brave and honourable, but that didn’t matter after the Queen scarred him for fighting on the wrong side. Like countless others, Bralin became a pariah after the schism. He couldn’t even go to the store without facing hate and scorn. He couldn’t go to his local temple without being chased out.”

Zeb said nothing, but his stomach dropped.

“No one trusted him. No one welcomed him. No one, but me.” Varad returned his attention to the projection of his love and inhaled. “We lived in isolation for decades. Far from civilisation and from those who’d hurt him for the mistakes he’d made. Far from those who’d hurt me for loving him. But there was no stone left unturned when the Empire came. Not even isolation spared us from the siege. Bralin died to give me a chance to escape.”

Varad looked at him again. 

“I don’t regret loving him.” Varad reached out and rested a hand on his knee, the touch warm and encouraging. “But I regret not pushing back. I regret letting others drive us into the shadows. Don’t let them do the same now. Don’t ever be ashamed of loving someone, Captain Orrelios. Love is one of the greatest gifts the Ashla can bestow upon us.”

And for the first time since he’d realised how he felt for the man who’d been his enemy, Zeb felt a small weight lift from his chest. He choked on a breath and then reached for Varad. He gripped the back of his head and pulled him close, pressing their brows together for a moment as he whispered a few words of incredulous gratitude.

Varad reached up to grip the back of his head in return. 

The gesture lasted less than a moment. 

Varad rose from his chair and left with a nod.

Zeb looked up at Chava and managed a faint smile, the expression crooked and wavering, but genuine. He couldn’t help whispering, “I wasn’t expectin’ the circle to end as well as it did. I thought more people would react like the one who spat on me.”

“The universe is full of surprises,” Chava replied gently, ducking down to rub her cheek against the top of his head again. Another soft purr rumbled up from her chest. “The Ashla is vast and forgiving. It will help the others muddle through this, Garazeb. I know it.”

“I hope so.”

“Come.” Chava withdrew a fraction and patted his shoulder. “Help me with these chairs.”

Zeb nodded and rose from his chair exhaustedly; the confession and subsequent emotional turmoil drained him of whatever strength he’d had. He just wanted to gather Sasha in his arms, murmur his apologies, and crawl back into bed with the man. He wanted to fall asleep with his face buried in that soft cascade of hair. He wanted to feel the rise and fall of that slender, but strong chest against his wrist. But he had to make it back to the cottage first and he wasn’t going to abandon Chava when she’d asked for his help.

Together, he and Chava made slow work of the chairs, stacking them in groups of five at the side of the chamber.

Zeb started to turn for the door when Chava dropped her staff without warning, the wood clattering against the stone. She choked on a gasp and then staggered back a step before catching herself against the stacks of chairs, claws digging in hard with a scream of tearing metal.

“Chava?”

Green gaze widening, Chava looked up at him and said weakly, “Something’s wrong.”

Zeb straightened at once, his exhaustion forgotten as soon as the warning left her mouth. He darted towards her and was alarmed when she slapped his hands away, shaking her head with surprising vigour. 

“Chava —”

“The shuttle,” Chava said as she started to push past him. Something akin to panic bloomed across her wizened features. “We have to get to the shuttle!”

Zeb didn’t attempt to argue. He didn’t push for an explanation. When Chava the Wise said something was wrong, the elder meant it. Zeb snatched up the staff from the floor and scooped her up before leaving the chamber and running up the spiralling staircase, ignoring the wave of dizziness that washed over him as the space swirled around him. He burst out into the temple proper, startling a few priestesses in the process, and just managed to gasp his apologies before orienting himself and continuing his flight from the temple. He thundered down the stone steps to the festival square below. Zeb ignored his own speeder-bike and moved towards Chava’s vacant speeder instead. 

Wherever Gron was now, Zeb knew the other Lasat wouldn’t mind his use of it.

Not when Chava was so alarmed and distressed. 

Zeb tossed Chava into the passenger seat and handed her the staff. As Chava gripped the staff with shaking hands, he climbed in behind the controls, bringing the engine to life in seconds. He didn’t hesitate to speed across the square, shouting a warning at the ambling civilians in their path. 

“Faster, Garazeb. Faster!” 

Zeb did as ordered and slammed his hand down on the throttle, hurtling the speeder through the streets at a dangerous velocity, ignoring the stream of angered shouts in their wake. His heart started thundering in his chest as dread began to pool in his gut. The steering wheel threatened to crumple beneath his tightening grip. Zeb tried to slow his breathing, tried to keep himself steady, but he didn’t dare open his connection to the Ashla. 

Whatever warning the Ashla had shown Chava, it had terrified her. 

Zeb couldn’t afford to see the vision himself. He couldn’t afford to be distracted. He had to keep himself focused and ready, prepared to jump into whatever situation was unfolding at the shuttle outside of Doross.

The streets passed in a blur of coloured fur and stone.

And then all he saw was a blur of green grass as Zeb and Chava sped towards where he’d set the _Phantom_ down. The engine roared louder and louder as the streets of Doross fell further and further behind. 

Zeb slammed on the brakes and slowed the vehicle with a controlled skid as the waiting shuttle approached fast. He’d just shut the engine when a pained shout reached his ears. His breath caught in his throat as he realised the shout was familiar. Too familiar. His muscles bunched in preparation as he scrambled up from his seat in time to see the Lasat from before, the one who’d spat in his face, dragging a bruised and bloodied Sasha out from inside the shuttle, one large hand fisting his hair in a tight grip and the other gripping Sasha’s bo-rifle.

An enraged roar tore out of his chest as the other Lasat threw Sasha to the ground.

Zeb didn’t think. He slammed his connection to the Ashla open and _jumped_. His current ignited and propelled him forward as the other Lasat raised the extended bo-rifle high with a vengeful snarl. One moment he was kicking off from the speeder, and the next he was between the two figures, staggering back a step as one ignited end plunged deep into his gut. Zeb looked down at the arcs of amber lightning crackling through fur and torn fabric and choked on a bubble of startled laughter, something wet dripping down over his lip. 

The other Lasat gasped and recoiled in an instant — wrenching the weapon free in the process.

Zeb staggered back another step, the shouts of his name distant and muted.

His knees buckled.

The last thing he saw before his vision went black was Sasha. His Sasha. Reaching for him with desperate hands and choking on his name.

* * *

Waking took more effort than he remembered. His lashes felt like weights. His limbs were heavy, but seemed to drift in a manner that rang a distant bell in his mind. When his lashes started fluttering finally, it took a few moments to realise where he was. 

Zeb was in a bacta tank.

It was larger than the ones used on the rebel bases. It could accommodate even the largest of his kind. Smaller than average, Zeb felt lost within the thick fluid that suspended him. A small distressed whine dissipating before it could escape the mask strapped to his face, Zeb raised an arm and tried to reach for the wall of the tank. 

His claws tipped the transparisteel. 

Just about.

But it seemed to be enough. 

A blurred figure approached the other side of the pane and a familiar tumble of hair swam into view, bringing a familiar face with it. Sasha. His Sasha. Alive and whole, the cuts and bruises he’d worn before no longer visible and the blindfold nowhere to be seen. A relieved noise caught in his throat at the sight of Sasha smiling, at the sight of him raising a hand to press against the transparisteel.

Zeb strained to press his fingertips against the pane, wincing as the harness holding him in place dug into his shoulder joints. He didn’t care about the pain. All he cared about was Sasha and being close to him again. All he cared about was wrapping his arms around the man and scenting him all over until no one could tell where one scent ended and the other began. Until no one could doubt that Sasha was _his._

Sasha turned his face. 

Zeb saw his lips move.

The top of the bacta tank hissed a moment later. 

Slowly, carefully, Zeb was lifted from the tank with the harness. Bacta dripped from his fur and a cold shiver rippled through his weary, weighted frame. He was set down on the floor beside the tank and his breathing mask was removed. Zeb didn’t have a chance to drag in a breath before Sasha was in his arms, face buried against his soaked shoulder.

Between two heartbeats, Zeb found himself kneeling on the floor in a spreading puddle of bacta as Sasha clung to him like moss. He held the man tiredly, tucking his face into those familiar locks, and just listened to the sound of his quickened breathing, his whispered curses and words of purest gratitude.

Nothing else existed but Sasha. 

Until he realised he couldn’t stop shivering, couldn’t shake the cold from his limbs.

Sasha withdrew a little and touched his face with trembling fingers, concern crinkling the sunken skin across his vacant sockets. He turned his head and said something, though the words still seemed distant and muted as Zeb just stared at the side of his face, drinking in his features — the damp, curling mutton chops, the cute line of his nose, the curl of his lips, and that tiny, delicate ear that made his stomach twist. 

A heated blanket was draped over him a moment later.

Zeb sighed in relief and sank into it immediately, drawing it and Sasha closer, wrapping them both up in it. Sasha didn’t resist and didn’t argue, burrowing even closer, winding those strong arms around him. Zeb rested his chin atop his head and just basked in the knowledge that Sasha was safe and sound — and in his arms, where he belonged.

Zeb didn’t know how much time passed before a familiar voice intruded.

“Brother, I’m relieved to see the bacta treatment worked.” The Lieutenant that had escorted them to the palace stepped forward and loomed over them. Her expression was serious, but concerned. “It was touch-and-go for a while. We were worried.”

Sasha’s arms tightened around him.

“Your assailant is in custody,” the Lieutenant continued. “Kallus has given his statement. Will we press charges?”

“No,” Zeb croaked as he shook his head. He squeezed the blanket closer. “But I’d like to speak to him in a controlled space before we leave the planet. Please.”

“Of course,” the Lieutenant answered with a faint nod of understanding. She tossed her braid over her shoulder. “The medics are going to run a few tests and then we’ll start the discharge process. You’ll be able to rest for a few hours at home before the bonfire tonight. You’re still attending, I assume?”

Zeb hesitated to answer.

“Yes,” Sasha answered in a subdued voice, still tucked under his chin. “We’re attending.”

“Good.” The Lieutenant smiled then. “It’s a sight to behold. You won’t regret it.”

Zeb remained silent as the medics approached and coaxed Sasha out of his arms, coaxed him back to his feet and over to a cushioned table. He remained silent as devices scanned his abdomen. He remained silent as he was directed to move this way, and that way, to allow the medics to check his range of movement after healing in the tank. From a wound that should have killed him.

His attention remained fixed on Sasha all the while, memorising him.

And Sasha seemed to stare back at him.

Zeb let his connection to the Ashla drift open and sighed as he felt a wave of emotion wash over him. Emotion that wasn’t his. Regret. Grief. Guilt. And love, so much love. More love than words could ever hope to express. Zeb swallowed and let his own emotions sink through his current and wind across the bond that tethered them together, allowing Sasha to feel what he felt in return. 

Sasha released a shaking breath and then gave him a smile that wavered for a moment.

“You’ll have to live with the scar,” one of the medics said eventually, helping Zeb up from the table, “but there doesn’t seem to be permanent damage other than that. You’re fortunate that Chava the Wise was present. If it wasn’t for her, you wouldn’t be here.”

Zeb swallowed and said nothing, but nodded in acknowledgement as another medic pressed a clean tunic into his hands. He slipped it over his head and felt a little more at ease. He reached for Sasha and was relieved when the man came quickly, burrowing into his side, allowing Zeb to wrap an arm around him and hold him close. 

Outside the clinic, the speeder-bike was waiting; clearly, someone had brought it over from the temple.

To his surprise, Sasha climbed in front and started the engine.

Zeb didn’t argue. He just settled behind him tiredly, enveloping him in his arms.

A motorcade of Honour Guards escorted them back to the cottage, where Chava was in the process of making tea and Gron was getting the hearth going in the living room. Both of them smiled with relief as Zeb and Sasha walked up the gravel path under the close watch of the Honour Guards behind them.

Zeb waved a tired hand at them through the windows.

Somehow, with the crackling sound of fire and the scent of tea brewing, and with the man he loved tucked against his side, the cottage seemed a little more like home than usual.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Art in the chapter is mine and will also be viewable on instagram. Just follow the link to my account in the end notes! :D

With the distant sound of the shower tickling his ears, Zeb took a moment to stare at the new scars marring his abdomen as he stood naked in front of the mirror in the master bedroom. The central scar was large and puckered slightly, a darker purple than his usual skin tone and more visible than he’d like. A spider web of scarring spread outwards from the central scar, following the path the lightning had taken as it burned through his fur. Zeb ran his fingertips over the ridged flesh and drew in a breath before shaking his head and turning his back on the mirror.

He pulled open the wardrobe.

There, nestled on a hanger, were the traditional garments he’d been gifted when he’d first landed on the planet with Chava and Gron. He’d never worn them. He’d never had a chance until now. His hands shaking slightly, and his nerves climbing, Zeb took the hanger from the railing and carried it back to the bed in silence.

Slowly, Zeb dressed. 

The deep green outer robes were heavy, but handsome with golden flowers embroidered across the material. The inner tunic and leggings were a softer green material. The smooth silk shifted against his fur like the kiss and caress of a tender lover and Zeb couldn’t stop a faint shiver from rippling through his frame, travelling from head to toe. A rich brown sash with a golden trim completed the ensemble.

Zeb looked in the mirror again.

Aside from a lingering hint of weariness, he shone like a new credit.

The shower stopped in the distance. 

His ears flicked. 

His breath quickening, Zeb sat down on the edge of the bed and waited for Sasha to emerge from the refresher and return to him dressed in the robes Chava had retrieved from the tailor on their behalf. Not wanting to risk damaging his robes with his claws, Zeb fidgeted with the blankets next to his legs instead.

It seemed to take forever for Sasha to return to him.

His breath caught in his throat when he did.

Sasha wasn’t just handsome. He was stunning, with shoulders squared beneath the weight of soft purple robes that crossed across his chest. The shimmering silver of his tunic was visible and drew his attention at once -- not to mention the creamy, freckled skin that crept down from his throat. Silver celestial patterns decorated the cuffs, hem, and along the edges where the robes met in the middle of his chest. His sash was a soft white to match the laundered blindfold drawn across the bridge of his nose. His forelocks were drawn back from his face and twisted carefully, pinned into place with something that shimmered in the light as the man moved. It had pointed ears that poked up above his head slightly, whatever it was, but Zeb couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be.

Zeb couldn’t help blurting, “Ya look beautiful.”

Sasha gave him a blinding smile that lit up the entire room and then turned his attention to his robes, muttering, “I don’t even know what colour these robes are. Does it suit me?”

“Yeah.” Zeb swallowed. “Purple does.”

“Purple?”

“And silver,” Zeb added and was surprised when Sasha paused briefly, frowning, but then the smile returned and it didn’t matter. Zeb rose from the bed and stepped forward to run a finger through those loose, curling locks that hung above his shoulders, and thought about skipping the festival. He thought about kissing Sasha right now, about squeezing him close and slipping his hands beneath those purple robes, about messing up those locks again and again.

But it wasn’t the right time.

Not quite.

But soon. 

He had to ensure the others understood his feelings weren’t going to change first.

Zeb ducked down to press their brows together and inhaled the comforting scent of earth and iron that clung to that creamy, tempting skin. He let his hand shift to the back of his neck and couldn’t help the crooked smile that bloomed across his face when Sasha shivered and sighed at the touch. Zeb couldn’t help asking, “Ready?”

“No. I don’t think I’ll ever be prepared to face them all in such a public space,” Sasha breathed and shook his head. One of his hands came to rest against the barrel of his chest and those fingers spread to cover his heart. “But I’ll do it. For us.”

Zeb captured his hand and squeezed before leading him to the door.

It was time to face his people.

Together.

The drive to Doross was calm and soothing. Sasha kept his head ducked down below his shoulders to protect his hair from the wind -- a thought that made Zeb smile as he guided the speeder-bike along the dirt road. Finally, Zeb slowed the speeder-bike to a stop a street or two from the festival square, securing the controls with a series of passcodes.

Dismounting, Zeb felt a wave of giddiness threaten to overcome him as he scanned the streets around him and saw the banners and garlands that stretched from lamp to lamp and building to building, filling the streets with even more colour. Handsome lanterns hung from the trees and cast a beautiful multi-coloured glow over the footpaths below. Zeb released a breath to calm himself somewhat and then turned to offer his elbow to Sasha.

To his pleasure, Sasha didn’t hesitate to accept the offer. 

Carefully, Zeb guided him through the streets, keeping a careful distance from the groups of excited Lasats scattered through the area. It became more difficult to keep a careful distance as the festival square came nearer, with more and more people taking up the space, laughing and chattering, and bright with excitement. It was wonderful to behold and Zeb couldn’t help wishing that Sasha could see it as it was meant to be seen: a sea of vibrant colour. 

Zeb stepped closer to his side, shifting his arm so that he could wrap it around Sasha and draw him closer, his hand resting warm and huge at his waist. Doing so earned a pleased sigh. He turned his head to nudge against his temple and grinned crookedly, his lips grazing against the shell of his ear. Zeb huffed a small laugh as Sasha gasped at the unexpected touch.

Warmth pooled in his gut as that scent he loved sweetened with arousal. 

Soon. 

Zeb almost whispered the word against the shell of his ear before catching himself. He focused on guiding Sasha through the thickening crowd instead and tried to find them a decent spot in the festival square, where both of them could see or hear whatever transpired when the festival began. He managed to find one spot a few feet from the stone benches outside the Hall of Justice, which occupied the southern side of the square, and gathered his love still closer, allowing himself to rub against his cheeks and purr his affection into his mutton chops.

Sasha shivered and sighed in his embrace, his hands smoothing over the fabric covering his chest and his lips curling around a soft smile as he welcomed the affection. He drew in several deep breaths as Zeb scented him and Zeb couldn’t stop his ears from wiggling happily, relishing the knowledge that Sasha loved his strong scent as much as Zeb loved his softer one.

It was so much more than a relief to know his scent wasn’t a deterrent.

Zeb was still purring into his mutton chops when a familiar voice said quietly, “Captain.”

His purr ending with some reluctance, Zeb took a step back to see Varad Kren and another pair of Lasats from the survivors’ circle the previous morning looking at him with a mixture of relieved concern and mild reservation.

“We heard about what happened yesterday,” Varad said. His drooped ears seemed to droop even further, deepening the furred and wrinkled skin around them. “We wanted to make sure things were alright.”

“I’m fine,” Zeb answered softly, his voice warm. He slid an arm around Sasha again and drew him close to his side, protective and somewhat possessive. It wasn’t hard to see the shine of approval and encouragement in the bright stare that Varad directed at him. Zeb couldn’t help giving Sasha an extra squeeze as he added quietly, “And so is Alexsandr, my Sasha.”

“Your mate looks beautiful in his robes,” one of the others, a handsome woman named Sala Alamas, commented. “Your colour suits him.”

His ears twitched at the unexpected comment and Sasha flushed at his side. 

Sasha _was_ his mate, Zeb realised with some surprise, his heart jumping into his throat without warning, threatening to choke him. Sasha was his mate in all but name -- something that could be solved with a simple promise bracelet. His fingers twitched with the urge to go and make one for him now.

But he didn’t have the time.

Nor the materials on hand.

It would have to wait.

“He does,” Zeb agreed softly, addressing the comment that stood out the most as he pushed thoughts of promise bracelets to the back of his mind. He couldn’t help glancing at Sasha and smiling, catching the man in the act of doing the same in return. He couldn’t help leaning in to brush a kiss against the curve of his cheek and feel the heat of that blush against his lips. “Very beautiful. I’m fortunate to have him here with me.”

Sasha released a soft and affectionate sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. 

“It seems so,” Sala agreed with a small smile. “You’ve never looked so at peace since Lasan.”

Zeb drew in a breath and winced as Sasha stiffened beside him abruptly, aware now that the Lasats speaking to them were survivors from his fallen homeplanet and not a handful of Lira Sani natives. His scent soured with shame in an instant. Zeb squeezed him closer, hoping to provide some comfort and encouragement with his touch -- their brief interaction with Sala and Varad hadn’t been a negative one, after all.

“Please,” Varad said quickly, his voice strengthening with warmth. He reached out a quelling hand for a moment before dropping it as he seemed to realise that Sasha couldn’t see it. “Don’t be alarmed. We’ve no wish to fight.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I understand.” Varad nodded. A sad smile curled his lips. “Given our shared history, and the incident yesterday, I would find such a claim difficult to believe as well. But it is the truth. Ruvan wasn’t acting on our behalf when he boarded the shuttle. His actions were his own.”

Varad and Sala and their companion shared a few glances and then murmured their farewells before slipping away, disappearing into the crowd gathered in the festival square, allowing Zeb and Sasha a moment to themselves.

“M’sorry,” Zeb said after a moment. “I should’ve mentioned Varad and the others were survivors.”

“It’s fine.” Sasha shook his head and then reached up to tuck a lock behind his ear. He pursed his lips. “I was just...surprised. I didn’t expect to be welcomed. Like that. And when Lasan was mentioned out of the blue...I just...for a minute, I started to doubt all over again…”

“All over again?” Zeb captured his chin with gentle fingers and tilted his head back enough to see the shift of his expressions behind the blindfold. “Explain.”

Sasha swallowed visibly, his apple bobbing, and then his tongue slipped out to moisten his lips in a quick sweep. It wasn’t sensual. But the action caught his attention all the same. One moment passed and then another before Sasha opened his mouth and —

A drum sounded in the distance, catching the attention of all those in the festival square. 

An excited cheering erupted around them. 

Sasha closed his mouth and swallowed again before tugging his hand closer and turning his face, nuzzling into his palm. 

“Later,” the man whispered and Zeb struggled to hear him over the wild enthusiasm of his people. “I promise I’ll explain later. Let’s just focus on the festival now. Alright?”

“Later,” Zeb agreed with a small nod and ducked down to kiss his forehead as the drumming grew louder, and nearer, and others joined with their own beat that differed but tied in with the first drum. He tugged until Sasha stood with his back against his chest and then enveloped the man in his arms as he shuffled forward slightly, edging ahead of a few groups of Lasats in order to get a better vantage point.

Slowly, the drummers came into view, thick drumsticks thundering against the skins of the enormous drums slung from their shoulders. Where those in the gathered crowd wore varieties of the traditional Lira Sani robes, those participating in the festival parade to the square were clad in garments made from elements of nature. The drummers wore knee-length skirts and crowns made from thick green fronds that were woven together with skill.

The groups of kits of various ages that followed in their wake wore vibrant cloaks and wings and hoods made of flower petals, whooping and laughing as their dances brought them back and forth across the street.

Their loved ones cheered for them and blew countless kisses.

Watching, Zeb felt nostalgic for his own childhood. He remembered the smaller, more contained festivals that had been celebrated on Lasan. He remembered Bas scooping him up from the ground and depositing him on his shoulders so that he could see over the other spectators. He remembered the sheer rapture he’d felt as he watched the dancers prance through the streets and watched Chava the Wise spin a burning baton in her wizened hands like a Lasat half her age. A crooked smile curled his lips now, soft and genuine, and Zeb dipped his chin until it rested atop Sasha’s head -- just behind his decorative comb, which bore a sleeping tooka with its tail wrapped around itself.

“You’d love this,” Zeb said softly, squeezing his love closer to his heart. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m sure it is.” Sasha sighed into his embrace. “Describe it to me. Please.”

Zeb didn’t hesitate to start whispering, describing all the things he saw as the parade progressed and brought the drummers past their spot. With each word that fell from his lips, his descriptions flowed easier, gaining in strength and confidence until he felt he’d made a more-than-passable attempt to describe what was taking place in front of them.

Sasha seemed pleased at least as he turned his head this way, and that way, following the sound of drums and childish laughter. A glimpse of his wistful smile was visible when he turned his head now and then. Almost idly, their fingers tangled together over his middle, his blunt nails digging into his palm with sudden force whenever a louder beat came from the drums moving around the festival square, taking up positions around the structure waiting to be set alight.

Each startled jolt made Zeb grin wider, made him squeeze his mate closer.

When the drummers found their positions along the edge of the festival square, the kits continued to dance happily, the spectators taking a step back to give them more room. A few handfuls of petals came loose during the dance and swirled through the air, the momentum of the dancers keeping them aloft and sending them outward over the gathered crowd. The tiniest kits giggled in their parents’ arms and reached for the petals, batting them with their oversized hands, drawing fond smiles from the Lasats surrounding them.

Zeb described it all in a hushed whisper.

Three priestesses followed the kits.

Two bore ceremonial jugs of oil.

The third was the High Priestess of Doross, who twirled a long flaming baton in her skilled hands, whirling it around her frame and up into the air to the raucous cheers of dozens of excited kits.

Finally, the High Priestess reached the wooden structure, chanted a few words in guttural Lira Sani to the Ashla as her fellows poured the ceremonial oil over the structure, and then thrust her flaming baton into the oil. Within seconds, the structure ignited with a roar, its powerful blaze casting a glorious glow as the crowd erupted in cheers once more.

Once the kits were taken home, the various brewers in the area brought out casks of wine and ale. It seemed like an endless supply, the rich and sweet alcohol flowing, loosening tongues and brightening spirits even further.

Zeb left Sasha unattended long enough to snag two large cups of wine and returned to him with a spring in his step, a grin blooming on his face as Sasha perked up at his approach and smiled that smile that made his stomach flip over itself. He pressed one cup into his waiting hands, the pair of them sharing an awkward fumble and a soft chuckle, when Sasha underestimated the size of the cup for a moment.

Fortunately, there wasn’t a single drop wasted.

Zeb looked around at the crowd of smiling, laughing Lasats that started to spread down the streets connected to the festival square, leaving large gaps between the clustered groups and allowing space for people to dance around the bonfire without risk. He almost wanted to cry; his rush of euphoria was so powerful. Zeb took several swallows of his own wine in a rush instead.

With each new cup of wine, Zeb and Sasha grew more carefree, grew bolder. 

It wasn’t long until Zeb tossed their cups into one of the trash receptacles placed in strategic spots around the festival square and led Sasha closer to the bonfire, his hand warm and firm around his wrist. He pulled the man right up against his chest for a moment and rubbed kiss after kiss into his mutton chops before guiding him into position for one of the slower dances, his ears flicking as one of the drummers gave them a wink.

Though Sasha was a fine warrior, he wasn’t a dancer. 

That much was clear. 

But what he lacked in skills, he made up for with bright smiles and a warm laugh as he entrusted himself to Zeb, giving his whole being into the moment. His locks and the tails of his blindfold bounced around his head and shoulders as Sasha tried to follow the steps Zeb guided him through. He stumbled a few times, catching himself against Zeb, his face flushed with wine and exertion.

When the beat from the thundering drums started to come quicker, Zeb couldn’t have been more delighted. Between the wine humming in his veins in time with the drums, and the exertion of dancing, and the warm presence of Sasha within his grasp, he’d never felt more alive. His ears twitched and flicked at the sound of each gasping breath and bubble of laughter that escaped his mate, the sound more music to his ears than the drums, and his grin grew brighter.

As the current beat started to climb to a crescendo, Zeb captured his hands and crossed their wrists before throwing them into a wild spin, the bright glow of the bonfire and the kaleidoscope of coloured fur flickering through the shadows a feast for the senses. Sasha released a noise somewhere between a startled shout and a burst of vibrant laughter, his mouth stretching around a grin even as his furrowing brows wrinkled his blindfold. Their robes whirled around each other, billowing together. 

Zeb hauled his mate close and scooped Sasha up from the ground as the beat came to a thundering close, raucous cheers echoing around the festival square. Sasha fumbled to throw his arms around his neck for a moment and then laughed into his ear, the sound bright and warm and close to euphoric. His blood thundering, Zeb carried him past a few Lasats and found a quiet spot near the Hall of Justice, settling Sasha down on a vacant bench and taking a seat beside him.

Now.

It had to be now, if he was going to make a move. 

Zeb shuffled a fraction closer, letting their knees brush.

Sasha inhaled at the touch. 

His expression softening, Zeb captured one of his hands and held it warmly, stroking his thumb over the soft back as he allowed himself to drink in the man sitting in front of him. His mate seemed to gaze right back through his blindfold. Seemed to drink him in with the same soft fervour. It made him feel seen. His heart skipping several beats, Zeb said softly, “I know waitin’ for me has been difficult at times. I know I’ve been confusin’ and frustratin’. I’ve been impulsive and moody, jumpin’ at the slightest hint of being caught and just...boltin’ like a startled tooka or somethin’. Truth is.... I was strugglin’ with how I felt.”

“I know.” Sasha squeezed his hand. “Who wouldn’t be struggling, knowing what I’ve done. What I helped to do. You don’t have to explain.”

“I need to do this,” Zeb insisted. “For me.”

Sasha released a breath and nodded.

“I felt guilty,” Zeb continued slowly, his voice falling to little more than a whisper. He dropped his gaze and focused his attention on their joined hands, watching the soothing stroke of his thumb across creamy, freckled skin. “Lovin’ someone who’d worked for the Empire for so long, who’d fought during the siege, felt like stabbin’ the people I’d loved and served in the back.”

Sasha squeezed his hand again.

Tighter than before. 

“But I was wrong, Sasha. I was _wrong_.” Zeb swallowed thickly, choking a little on the sudden lump in his throat. He shuffled still closer, dragging in a deep lungful of that scent he cherished so much. “Varad...he told me that love was a gift at that meetin’. That I shouldn’t let others dictate how I live, how I feel. And then...at the shuttle, I thought…” 

Zeb trailed off and his breath started to quicken with little warning, powerful emotions surging within him. He crushed his lashes against his cheeks, feeling a sharp sting beneath his lids. His grip tightened. It took a few moments before Zeb managed to calm himself enough to speak again.

“Ya could’ve died yesterday, Sasha.” Zeb raised his head and stared at Sasha then. He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and cradling his face in the cup of his palm. His heart twisted when Sasha leaned into his touch without hesitation. It emboldened him. “Ya could’ve died and I’d never have said that I _love_ ya.”

“Garazeb,” Sasha said with a tremulous smile, his blindfold growing damp. “I love you too.”

Zeb choked on a little burst of laughter, one filled with happiness and relief. He’d known Sasha felt that way, of course. He’d felt it after he’d emerged from the bacta tank. He’d felt it whenever Sasha graced him with the brush of his fingers. But hearing the words aloud was a delight in itself.

Slowly, Zeb drew the man closer, listening to his breath quicken with soft anticipation. He hovered close, his fingers sliding around to cradle the back of his head tenderly, tangling with his loose locks. He swallowed as Sasha moistened his lips with a dart of his tongue, leaving them glistening in the light from the bonfire. His ears flicked and wiggled before Zeb closed the last few inches, grazing a soft and tentative kiss against those lips.

Sasha shivered and sighed.

Zeb paused for a moment and then kissed him again. With each new kiss, he gained more confidence, the gentle slide of his lips growing more sensual as Sasha leaned into him almost automatically, lips parting around another soft sigh. His sigh deepened as Zeb took advantage of the unspoken welcome, slipping his textured tongue between his lips and encouraging Sasha to open wider to accommodate his kiss, which his mate did with eagerness. 

Zeb couldn’t help rumbling his satisfaction.

Sasha shivered again and surprised him with a soft moan of pleasure, arching closer to him and winding his arms around his shoulders. His fingers fisted the fur at the back of his neck with something akin to desperation. It was almost as though the rumble of his satisfaction _did_ something to Sasha.

That thought made his breath stutter in his chest. 

Breaking the kiss abruptly, Zeb cradled his face in both hands. He pressed their brows together and couldn’t stop his lashes from fluttering as the realisation of what was happening started to set in. His heart thundering, Zeb couldn’t help whispering, “Back to the cottage?”

“ _Please_.”

Zeb didn’t need to be asked twice. The desperate plea in his voice was enough to get him moving. He relinquished his face and snared his hand instead before surging to his feet. His blood thundered in his ears as he led Sasha across the festival square and back to the speeder-bike, aware of the answering pulse hammering against his palm with equal fervour. Zeb didn’t hesitate to straddle the speeder-bike and he reached back to cup a strong thigh as Sasha settled behind him carefully, arms winding around him and holding tight.

The drive out of Doross was slow and careful to avoid the still-celebrating crowds.

It gave him a few moments to catch his breath and remind himself that there was no need to rush. There was no need to let his passions drive him mad or risk his mate making decisions that he might regret in the morning, once the wine finished working through him. He and Sasha had the entire night to experience each other and then some. Nothing and no one would interrupt them.

His mind was clear when he parked the speeder-bike beside his cottage sometime later.

His heart warm and his breath steady, Zeb dismounted. 

But he didn’t make it two steps before Sasha collided with him and drove him up against the wall of the cottage, his lips hot and hard.

“Easy,” Zeb gasped against his lips before he managed to cup those cheeks softly, stroking soothing thumbs along the edge of his blindfold. His fingers tangled with soft locks of windswept hair within moments. “Easy, love. No need for rushin’. We have all night.”

“Sorry,” Sasha breathed immediately, though he remained right up against him. His long fingers stroked the heavy, weighted material of his robes, tracing the shape of his pectoral muscles beneath and then up to his shoulders, his touch slow and measured. It was almost careful. “I’m just excited. I... I didn’t think we’d ever get this far.”

Zeb couldn’t stop a small huff of laughter from escaping, his face crinkling around a grin for a moment. He brushed a kiss against his lips and then another, but each one was as soft and tender as the last. He didn’t lose control. He didn’t let his hunger take over. He didn’t give in to the desperation that Sasha tried to feed into their embrace and soon Sasha began to settle into something steadier, responding to his tenderness. Carefully, Zeb slid his hands down over the curve of his arms and the line of his waist before tugging the sash holding those soft purple robes closed open and letting his hands slip inside.

Sasha whispered his name, his breath hitching. 

The sash still dangling between the curl of his fingers, Zeb reached down and gripped his thighs carefully, heaving his mate into his arms with one smooth motion. He welcomed the grip of those thighs as Sasha wrapped his legs around his waist. He welcomed the hands that slid upwards to tangle in the fur at the back of his head. Unable to stop his rumbling purr from escaping, Zeb carried Sasha to the front door, continuing to kiss those tempting lips even as he reached to unlock the door with one hand. 

Zeb carried him to the master bedroom and set him down with care. 

His breath quickening, and his lips bruised from kissing, Sasha reached for the sash around his waist and tugged it open before letting it flutter to the floor, sliding his hands beneath the parting of his robes at once.

Zeb shivered at the caress of his hands across his middle, his abdomen sucking inward automatically, and then relaxing into his touch. He swallowed as Sasha trailed soft kisses down the length of his neck even as those hands slipped upwards to push his robes from his shoulders, guiding them past his elbows until the weight of the material dragged the robes to the floor. His heart stuttered in his chest as Sasha nipped at his apple with his teeth. The pressure was as light as a feather, but it teased at so much more, if he would just give in to the heat simmering in his veins. Zeb groaned low in his throat as Sasha slipped his hands down the back of his leggings and squeezed with a hint of reverence that made his stomach twist and made his blood pound in his ears.

“ _Karabast_.”

“I agree,” Sasha gasped before capturing his lips in another kiss, his hands pushing his leggings down over the curve of his arse and trailing over the backs of his thighs.

Zeb almost tripped as he stepped out of his leggings, earning a breathless little laugh from his mate. He reached down for the hem of his own tunic and whipped it up and over his head before tossing it aside without a word. He tugged Sasha close once more, letting him explore his new nakedness, letting him feel muscle and fur with shaking fingers as Zeb kissed him again and again. But it wasn’t long until Zeb slipped his own hands beneath purple robes again and whispered softly, “Your turn.”

Sasha paused and stiffened.

Zeb blinked in surprise, his hands freezing, murmuring, “Is that alright?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Zeb started to pull his hands back. “M’sorry; we don’t have to keep goin’....”

“I want to,” Sasha said softly, a note of hesitance in his voice even as he captured his hands and pulled them back beneath his robes. He held them there. Sasha swallowed visibly; his nerves were palpable. “But I’m not sure I can strip. I... I have _scars_. From...from Onderon.”

“I figured.” Zeb couldn’t help softening, couldn’t help ducking down to rub kisses against his mutton chops, a soothing purr rumbling up from his chest. After a few moments, he pulled back a little, gazing at Sasha. “Ya trust me?”

“Of course,” Sasha replied immediately, his voice cracking.

“Then trust me when I say,” Zeb said softly, a crooked smile curling his lips despite his serious tone, “that _nothin’_ could scare me off now. _Nothin’_ could repulse me. I’ve seen the ugliest parts before and it looked nothin’ like a scar. And I’m still here. I _want_ to be here. But I meant what I said: we can stop now and just lie here together. I don’t mind. I want us both to feel comfortable.”

The broken little noise that escaped Sasha threatened to tear his heart to pieces.

“Okay,” Sasha said after a few moments, nodding hard. Fear and determination waged war across his features even as his shaking hands started pulling at his clothes, letting them fall to the floor one after the other. Slowly, his clothes gathered in a heap until nothing remained.

Zeb felt his heart splinter in an instant as the scars were revealed. 

There, carved deep into his pale chest in jagged aurebesh, were the words:

_Death to the Empire_.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update.
> 
> I have to say, updating this fic for y'all is like the highlight of my week.

Alexsandr tried to keep his breathing steady, tried to keep from covering his chest as Garazeb stared at his scars. But he couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. He couldn’t stop his tear ducts from heating, nor tears from soaking into his blindfold. Alexsandr bowed his head to hide his face, swallowing the sob that threatened to escape his throat.

Gentle fingers captured his chin and coaxed his head back up.

“C’mere,” Garazeb whispered. He brushed a soft kiss against his lips before enveloping him in his arms, drawing him flush against the fur of his chest. One large hand settled between his shoulders and the other plucked the decorative comb from his hair, letting his forelocks tumble around his face, before undoing the knot securing his blindfold.

Alexsandr couldn’t help shuddering. He’d never felt so bare, so vulnerable, until now. He tucked his face against a large shoulder, inhaling a lungful of that comforting scent. His lips twisted with emotion as Garazeb just held him for several aching moments, rubbing his cheek against the top of his head and purring gently, sending the vibrations down through his frame. Alexsandr fisted soft fur with both hands.

It took several agonising minutes to subdue his emotions, his doubts and fears, and Alexsandr was left shaking afterwards. 

Garazeb scooped him up from the floor with gentle hands and carried him to the bed without uttering another word. He cradled him close even as he crawled onto the mattress, easing them both down against the waiting mound of pillows as he pulled the blankets down with his prehensile feet. Garazeb tried to ease away, tried to keep his larger bulk from crushing him too heavily, but Alexsandr refused to let him go.

The Lasat huffed a fond laugh into his hair and then brushed a kiss against his forehead.

Garazeb tugged the blankets back up, tucking them in close around their bodies.

Alexsandr couldn’t help shivering, crushed as he was between soft fur and silken sheets. His fingers shaking, he ran his hands over furred muscle, feeling the strength in those broad shoulders and down the powerful curve of his back. His lips parted to welcome the soft kiss that came a moment later, tender and affectionate. Alexsandr sighed as one gentle hand soothed his hair back from his face, caressing him in the process. 

“Let’s just lie here,” Garazeb breathed against his lips, his voice a soft rumble. “Just like this.”

“Please,” Alexsandr whispered. His breath caught in his chest as Garazeb began to trail soft kisses across his face, following the curve of his jaw to one ear before moving inwards, his lips pausing to graze gentle affection against his sunken lids. Whimpering weakly, Alexsandr dug his fingers deep into furred muscle, earning a strained gasp of pleasure from the Lasat blanketing him.

Kisses were one of his weaknesses, Alexsandr realised as Garazeb continued to feather affection against his skin. Each brush of those soft lips made him shiver, made his heart beat faster, made his stomach twist as heat pooled in his gut. Each gust of warm breath across his skin made his hips twitch upwards slightly, a faint flicker of sensation as his skin moved against fur.

His breath started to quicken as Garazeb nipped at the base of his neck with those dangerous fangs, careful not to break skin. But the touch sent hot pulses of adrenaline through his veins all the same.

“Gorgeous,” Garazeb sighed between gentle nips, each one teasing an inch or two lower than the last until his parted lips reached the edge of his jagged scars.

Alexsandr stiffened immediately, almost recoiling, but Garazeb released another soft purr that rumbled through their chests in the same instant and smoothed a large hand over his head to gentle him as soon as his nerves started to ramp up. It took a few moments, but under such tender ministrations, he began to relax once more and welcome the affection. His breath stuttering repeatedly, Alexsandr slid his hands upwards, tangling his fingers in the fur at the back of that large head.

As one hand continued to smooth over his hair, Garazeb cupped his thigh with the other, his palm gentle where he’d once broken his leg on that frozen moon. His thumb stroked over his bare skin as his broad hips began to rock slowly, adding to the sparks of sensation building within Alexsandr.

“Ya feel so good under me,” Garazeb murmured against his sternum. Those teasing lips grazed against his scars, sending flickers of sensation that wasn’t quite pleasure down his torso, but which made his stomach twist with something akin to desperation. It made his skin flush and break out in a sweat that Garazeb lapped up with his textured tongue, the ridges making his blood thunder in his ears. “Ya belong here. With me.”

“ _Zeb_ ,” Alexsandr breathed raggedly, almost unable to speak through the rapid panting that made his chest heave between them. He dragged his fingers downwards, finding the curve of his backside, gripping hard. His tear ducts burned hot. “Please, please, _please_. I _can’t_ —”

“I know,” Garazeb answered and he straightened to kiss him deeply, the rock of his hips increasing in subtle increments.

When Alexsandr reached the peak of his pleasure, it was with a strangled sob.

Within moments, he was lethargic, warm and boneless beneath Garazeb. A dazed breath and the Lasat was between his thighs, lapping at his skin. Another breath and Garazeb was kissing him softly, the bitter taste of his spend lingering on his tongue. Another and Garazeb cocooned them under the blankets, the growing warmth bringing sleep closer and closer as the Lasat purred into his hair. 

It wasn’t long until he drifted off.

* * *

_Alexsandr recognised her in an instant as he gazed through the one-sided mirror, his arms folded across the breadth of his chest. He’d encountered so few Lasats, it wasn’t hard to place where he’d seen her before. Her blue and silver fur stood out in his memories. His lip curling with anger, he watched her ears flick as she studied the room around her. His lungs threatening to seize, Alexsandr remembered Onderon and the eager flick of pointed ears as his agonised screams echoed through smoke and fire._

_Alexsandr dug his fingers into his arms, his lashes fluttering as the current pain pulled him from his memories and grounded him to the present. He released a breath and turned from the mirror, relieved that he was alone in the viewing room. He didn’t need a witness to his struggle to remain calm. Unfolding his arms and squaring his shoulders, Alexsandr left the viewing room at a brisk pace and strode into the interrogation room a moment later, displeased to see she didn’t even seem surprised at his approach._

_It was an effort to keep his expression void of emotion as he settled opposite her._

_It was an effort to keep his lips from curling in distaste as her nostrils flared._

_She was smelling him._

_Just like the other one._

_For a horrible moment or two, his mind flashed back to the harsh grip of large fingers in his short hair, to the snuffle of a cold nose along the arch of his neck and the whispering growl of a salivating beast as it ripped into his chest with the claws of its free hand._

_“You’ve changed.” Her words brought him back to the interrogation room in an instant. Her gall tethered him to the present. His focus sharpened as her pointed ears drooped and she added quietly, “Little one, what happened to you?”_

_“Your kind happened to me.” His response was cold and as hard as stone. Alexsandr rose from his chair immediately, and walked around behind her, willing his heartbeat to slow. Willing his stomach to stop knotting. He stopped in front of the mirror, watching his reflection stare back at him in frostbitten fury, his hands clasped behind his back. “A Lasat has joined forces with Saw Gerrera and his merciless band of terrorists. You know what happened on Onderon. You’ve seen the broadcasts. You came here in response to a plea for information from Colonel Wulff Yularen. Speak or get out.”_

_“I came because Lasats follow a code,” the Lasat answered from behind him. Her reflection twisted to look for him and her luminous green gaze focused on him through the transparisteel pane. “What happened on Onderon was not our way; if I can help bring justice, I will.”_

_A cold chuckle escaped him._

_His nails dug into his own hands, sending sharp jolts of pain through him._

Lasats follow a code _, Alexsandr thought as his lip curled around a sneer._ Right.

_“It would help if I knew what he looked like.”_

_“Very well.”_

_Alexsandr turned from the mirror and returned to his seat. He unclipped a holodevice from his belt and set it on the smooth tabletop between them without speaking another word. His stomach rebelled as he tapped the button in the center and the scarred face of the Lasat who’d assaulted him and slaughtered his squad — ignoring their pleas for mercy, their desperate sobbing — materialised in the air between them. Swallowing the taste of bile, Alexsandr stared through the projection and focused on the Lasat facing him now instead._

_Her face hardened as she looked at the projection._

_Her ears flattened against her head._

_Her fur bristled._

_She averted her gaze._

_Inhaling the impending scent of victory, Alexsandr leaned forward in his chair slowly, his gaze sharpening like vibroshivs as a quiet hunger flooded through his veins like adrenaline. His fingers spread across the tabletop, nails threatening to claw at its surface. He was close. So close to finding that vicious bastard and dragging him in chains to face justice. Alexsandr moistened his lips with a quick dart of his tongue and said softly, his voice almost a silken whisper, “You recognise him. Give me his name. Give me the names of those who know him best. Those who might know where he disappeared to. Give me the information I need and go in peace.”_

_“I can’t.” Her hardened gaze turned to meet his. “I don’t know who he is.”_

_“Lies,” Alexsandr snarled as a cold rage burned through him like ice. His nails scraped across the smooth tabletop, harmless and leaving no lasting mark despite the sheer magnitude of his growing rage. “Tell me what I want to know or face charges for obstruction of justice.”_

_“I can’t tell what I don’t know.” The Lasat surged to her feet without warning, jostling the table with the force of her movement and baring her fangs with a growl. Her kind facade was gone as she towered over his seated form. “If I could help, little one, I would. Since I can’t...I’ll be leaving now.”_

_His blaster was out and aimed at her face before she could move another inch._

_It was a miracle that his hand didn’t shake as he snapped bitingly, “Sit. Down. Or I will shoot.”_

_“Little one —”_

_“Don’t patronise me,” Alexsandr said as he rose from his chair, his voice pitched low and dangerous, his cold rage coming closer and closer to the surface, threatening to unleash. “I am an Agent of the Empire. I work hard to protect our citizens from monsters like him. You will show me some respect.”_

_She stared at him and said nothing, but her jaw tightened._

_Alexsandr stared at her in return. His aim remained true, focused on the small gap between the ridges of her brows, behind which sat the brain of a dangerous predator. One wrong move and he would fire a bolt in a heartbeat. Slowly, Alexsandr moved his free hand to the commlink attached to his belt and alerted security, feeling safer as the sound of numerous feet — metal and organic alike — approached at a brisk pace._

_“You can’t do this,” the Lasat said as the droids and stormtroopers charged through the door behind Alexsandr, circling him and seizing her with unflinching hands before she could even dare move. She resisted the numerous hands that pulled at her, their grip relentless. “I’ve done nothing wrong! I swear I don’t know who he is!”_

_“Tell that to the court.”_

_Alexsandr kept his blaster trained on her until the door to the interrogation room slid closed and removed her from his sight. As soon as she was gone, the blaster fell from his hand and clattered to the floor. Roaring his fury, he seized the table with both hands and hurled it at the mirror, watching the transparisteel shatter outwards and —_

Alexsandr woke to the burn of vomit racing up his throat. He scrambled out of the bed and raced to the refresher, vomit spilling down his chin before he could drop to his knees in front of the toilet. His stomach clenched hard and another wave followed a moment later, forcing him to curl over the rim. His tear ducts burned almost as hot and sore as his throat did. Alexsandr vomited twice more before he managed to catch a breath as he clawed at the outside of the toilet bowl with shaking fingers.

Silence followed his purge. 

Nothing stirred in the cottage, except himself.

His distress didn’t pull Garazeb from his sleep. It didn’t disrupt his rumbling snores for even a moment and Alexsandr wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or cause for more tears as he clung to the toilet. He pressed his hot face against the cool surface and panted hard for several moments, his heart still racing, his mind still reeling, and his stomach still sore.

Alexsandr didn’t move from his kneeling position until he was certain another wave of vomit wasn’t going to come and double him over again. Once he was sure, he rose slowly, his connection to the Force tenuous at best as he wobbled over to the sink and turned the cold faucet. He splashed a handful of frigid water over his face before ducking down and catching a mouthful in order to rinse the acrid taste of vomit from his mouth. Alexsandr rinsed again and again until even the faintest hint of it was gone.

Remaining in the refresher until he regained some sense of calm in the wake of his nightmarish memories, Alexsandr crept back into the bedroom. He listened to the sound of Garazeb snoring into the pillows and wanted nothing more than to crawl into the safe span of his arms, but he couldn’t. 

Not after reliving that.

Alexsandr retrieved a pair of leggings and a set of robes from the floor in silence. He wasn’t sure whose until he slipped them on a moment later, losing himself in the heavy, weighted material of the robes. Though he kept the robes to maintain a semblance of closeness to Garazeb, Alexsandr swapped the leggings for his own and slipped from the bedroom on silent feet.

A few short moments later, Alexsandr stepped out into the late-night air — late enough to be called morning, though he supposed it didn’t matter as he dragged in a brisk breath and appreciated the sharp burn of cold in his lungs for a moment. He moved down the gravel path gingerly, stepping out onto the grass just outside the perimeter fence.

Not wanting to be caught unawares a second time, Alexsandr focused as well as he could and strengthened his connection to the Force, allowing his senses to whisper outwards in search of Lasats in the area. Most were still sleeping, but one he recognised was awake already, her now-familiar presence a soft balm against his senses. 

Before he realised what he was doing, Alexsandr was walking toward her, the dew-soaked grass prickling at the naked soles of his feet.

Chava wasn’t surprised to see him when he reached her. She just patted the ground next to her with a gentle hand — sending soft ripples of her essence through the pale glow of the grass and soil — and Alexsandr didn’t hesitate to kneel beside her, mirroring her meditative pose with his head bowed and his palms resting on his thighs. Chava hummed in soft approval beside him and then exhaled slowly, her frame relaxing.

Her measured breathing guided him.

With each slow breath that escaped Alexsandr, his connection to the Force grew stronger, but smoother, its edges softening out. His senses edged outwards, encompassing the tiniest bugs wriggling around in the vegetable patches in the area to the breath of the trees that towered over the cottages along the dirt road.

He didn’t know how long he knelt in the wet grass.

Time didn’t exist. 

He knew nothing but the soft and entrancing whisper of the wider world breathing around him.

It was beautiful.

And it was precious, more precious than he could ever express.

Alexsandr didn’t realise his face was wet until Chava guided him back into himself with a gentle hand and climbed to her feet without a word. He dashed the back of his hand across his face as Chava stepped back into her cottage, leaving the door open behind her in silent invitation. He hesitated for a moment and then followed her inside, brushing his fingers against the control panel and letting the door slide closed behind him. He stepped into the kitchen to find her pottering around — fetching cups and other items as a kettle boiled.

Tea, Alexsandr realised.

Chava was making tea.

It wasn’t long until Chava encouraged him to sit at the table, setting a steaming cup of tea down in front of him and patting his shoulder. Its soft and soothing scent wafted up towards his face and Alexsandr bowed his head closer carefully, inhaling deeply, wrapping his hands around warm ceramic. He soaked up its warmth and wondered how he could ever thank Chava — for inviting him to meditate with her, for inviting him inside her home, knowing what he’d been and what he’d done to her people, what he’d done to others.

Her kind and forgiving nature baffled him.

Kindness never ceased to baffle him now. 

Finally, Chava settled opposite him with a cup of her own.

“You’re troubled.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Alexsandr answered. He avoided her relentless stare as much as possible, discomfited. He adjusted the grip on his cup and took a small sip, pushing down the memories that had plagued his dreams that night. It wasn’t his place to speak of them. It wasn’t his place to burden a Lasat with his troubles. “I just didn’t want to be alone.” 

“I disagree,” Chava said mildly, taking a sip of her own tea. The weight of her gaze threatened to burn a hole through his face. “Bottling things up isn’t good for people generally, but it is so much worse for those who’ve been under the influence of the Bogan in the past. It weakens the ties to the Ashla. You need to understand the difference between mastering emotions and suppressing them.”

Alexsandr sighed wearily, unable to stop himself from confessing, “You’re too good to me.”

“Perhaps. But there is a certain strength in kindness, in making the choice to forgive.”

“Yes, it seems so.” Alexsandr took another sip of his tea before admitting, “I... I had a dream.”

“I know.”

“You…know?”

“Your distress was rather loud.” Chava reached across the table and patted his hand. “Unlike Garazeb, I never close the connection I have with the Ashla. I am one with it at all times. Your emotions rippled through it and woke me.”

“I apologise.” His hands tightened around his cup. “I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

“I know that too,” Chava said gently, patting his hand once more.

“Chava...how do I be like you? How does one learn how to forgive,” Alexsandr asked a few minutes later, his voice dropping to little more than a whisper. He raised his head and gazed at her glowing circuit through his connection to the Force, a wave of helplessness washing over him. “How does one forgive the terrible things people do?”

“I can’t answer that.” Chava released a small sigh and tugged one of his hands from his cup in order to hold it in hers. Her thumb stroked over his knuckles. “Forgiveness is something we have to learn on our own. It isn’t something that can be taught.”

His throat tightening, Alexsandr returned his attention to his tea. He focused on the faint sting of heat against his palm and fingers, knowing it would redden his skin before long. He focused on the swirl of steam as it brushed soft kisses across his face, reminding him of the warm breaths of Garazeb as he’d kissed him earlier that night. 

“The most important thing we can learn in life is how to forgive ourselves, how to love and appreciate ourselves for what we are and what we have the power to become,” Chava said gently, squeezing his hand. “Learning to forgive others for the wrongs done to us comes later.” 

“But how could I ever do that? Knowing what I’ve done?”

“You’re on the path. You made a choice to be better, Alexsandr. You’ve accepted that grave mistakes were made. You can’t unmake these mistakes, but can learn to make better choices for the future. Focus on self-improvement for now — not out of a sense of guilt or shame, but because it is the right thing to do. Guilt and shame, hatred and fear, and bitterness, these things make us vulnerable to the Bogan.”

“I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid. Or angry,” Alexsandr whispered. “Or ashamed.”

“I know.” Chava squeezed his hand again. A sad understanding filtered into her voice and it softened the ache inside him. “I can sense how deep-seated these emotions are. Mastering them will be difficult. But I will help however I can. You have a datapad back at the base, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll ask Garazeb to provide me with the frequency, so we can remain in contact.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Alexsandr shook his head. “You must have better things to do.”

“Nothing is more important than helping those in need.”

Alexsandr opened his mouth to respond and then said nothing, unable to find the words to argue. He moved to take a sip of his tea instead and focused on the soothing heat as it travelled down his throat and settled in his stomach. Gradually, the warmth eased the lingering aches from his purge.

The pair of them lapsed into silence, soft and comfortable, hands still joined on the table.

Alexsandr slipped into his senses once more and listened to the world around him. He sensed a number of Lasats stirring, rolling over in their beds, powerful frames loose with sleep. He sensed birds waking, wings fluttering, their morning chorus beginning in the distance and reaching his ears through the walls. He sensed a few nocturnal creatures bedding down for the day, curling up, a sense of awe washing through him. 

And then…

Alexsandr sensed Garazeb, his love, waking in the distance. He sensed his dazed search through the lingering darkness, looking for Alexsandr, and the jarring realisation that he’d left the bed. That he’d left the room. He sensed a bloom of fear and worry, something bordering on dread. His heart twisted at the feel of it. Alexsandr returned to himself and drank the rest of his tea in a few quick swallows, muttering his apologies, muttering that Garazeb was looking for him.

Chava wasn’t surprised. 

Alexsandr hastened back to the cottage, almost slipping in the wet grass a few times, and unlocked the door with the code Garazeb had given him the previous afternoon. He darted down the hall and burst through the bedroom door, his heart aching when he witnessed those ears drooping through the Force.

“Ya left.” Garazeb sounded wounded. “Ya regret bein’ with me?”

“No,” Alexsandr said quickly, but softly, scrambling onto the bed between one heartbeat and the next. He reached for Garazeb with both hands, cupping his face and pressing their brows together, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. “No, of course not. I meant what I said last night. On the bench.”

“But ya left....”

“It wasn’t because of what we did together. I had an uncomfortable dream about something I did in the past.” Alexsandr shook his head and felt the ache in his chest sharpening. He’d never wanted this. He’d never wanted Garazeb to doubt how he felt about him. Not for a moment. “I just needed some time.”

Garazeb said nothing, his frame still tight with tension.

Alexsandr did the first thing that came to mind: he started to rub his cheek against his face.

He didn’t know what it meant.

But it seemed important.

A moment passed and then another before Garazeb started to relax and purr, the sound rumbling up from the barrel of his chest. It was a relief when Garazeb wrapped his arms around him and tugged him closer, pulling him right onto his lap and up against his chest. Those large hands roamed over him as Garazeb seemed to assure himself that Alexsandr wasn’t going to disappear again.

“Don’t leave me again.” Garazeb spoke softly, his voice wavering slightly, his powerful arms holding him tight against his chest. One hand tangled in his hair and the other settled between his shoulder blades. “Not in the middle of the night like that. Not without tellin’ me or leavin’ me some kind of message. What we have feels so fragile, and so new, and I... I thought I’d pushed too hard or somethin’.”

“No,” Alexsandr breathed into his fur, soothing his own hands over the quivering muscles he could reach. He couldn’t help whispering the same endearment he’d used when teasing Garazeb on Dennogra as he continued to reassure the Lasat in his arms. “No, darling, no. What happened last night was what I _needed_. You were so good to me.”

“Darlin’.” Garazeb repeated the endearment on a soft breath. “I like that.”

“You do?”

“Yeah.” Garazeb nodded against him and then turned his face, capturing his mouth in a soft kiss that made his breath hitch. “Ya never use words like that. ‘Cept with me. Makes me feel special.”

“You are.”

The warm glow of those sensitive ears wiggled and Alexsandr knew Garazeb was happy, that his whispered words of affirmation made him feel good. That knowledge made his chest bloom with warmth.

“You’re wearin’ my robes,” the Lasat said a few moments later, the surprise in his voice suggesting he’d just realised it.

“I am.” Alexsandr smiled brightly, the warmth in his chest spreading through him. He tugged the warm fabric closer for a moment before a thought flickered through his head and brought a soft bubble of laughter to his lips. “Want to take it off me?”

“Nah.” Garazeb shook his head with a huff. A small smile filtered into his voice. His large hand came to cradle his face, his palm tender with affection. “Ya look good wearin’ my clothes. All soft and invitin’. Like a present. C’mere.”

Garazeb kissed him again. 

After some awkward shuffling, Alexsandr found himself sprawled on top of the Lasat beneath the blankets, his head tucked under his chin and the blankets drawn up to his shoulders. A contented sigh escaped him as he snuggled closer to furred muscle, his frame mellowing as the warmth grew between them.

It wasn’t long until Alexsandr drifted off within his arms for the second time.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Feel free to let me know what y'all think!

Waking the second time was much more pleasant. 

It came with soft kisses along the arch of his neck and the press of a gentle hand against his belly, holding him in place as broad hips rocked against his backside, grinding a solid heat that he hadn’t felt the night before against him. It came with the slide of heavy, weighted fabric down the curve of his arm and the bunching of the same fabric around his waist. It came with the possessive, and protective, curl of warm prehensile feet around his as Garazeb trailed kisses across his shoulder, lips parting, fangs grazing against his skin. 

Alexsandr shivered and turned his head. He moaned against the soft lips that found his, his own frame still soft with sleep, but welcoming the eager press of his love. He reached back and clutched a strong thigh in encouragement.

Garazeb spilled with a strained growl a few minutes later, his powerful frame jerking tight and then relaxing around a satisfied sigh.

“M’sorry,” Garazeb whispered eventually, his voice still shaking from his release. He nuzzled against his neck and pressed a soothing kiss behind his ear, the huff of his breath warm and comforting. “Just woke up hot ‘n’ bothered after a dream and I needed to… Ya know.”

“Don’t apologise for having needs, darling,” Alexsandr answered through a sleepy, but affectionate sigh. He stroked the quivering thigh in his grasp. “I know I fell asleep before I could return the favour last night.”

“Ya weren’t meant to return the favour,” Garazeb rumbled into his ear, the vibrations travelling down his neck and into the depths of his chest. “Ya needed to feel good with me. Ya needed to forget for a minute. That’s all I wanted from last night.”

“Garazeb…”

“Don’t argue with me, babe.” Garazeb brushed another kiss behind his ear. His thumb stroked over his belly, warm and soft. “Ya know I’m tellin’ the truth.”

There was that word again. 

Babe.

Spoken with the same affection that _he’d_ used when speaking the word darling.

Alexsandr felt his face warm as the word echoed in his mind and whispered across his skin like a kiss. No one had ever used such a term before. Not for him. No one, except Garazeb. Just the thought made his stomach flip. Alexsandr couldn’t help turning over, heedless of the mess soaking into the back of his leggings, and kissing him.

Hard and deep, almost possessive. 

Garazeb made a surprised noise and kissed him in return for several exquisite moments before easing back with a sigh. His hand — now against the small of his back — slid upwards to tangle in his hair, affectionate. His claws grazed against his scalp as Garazeb murmured softly, “Ya liked that? Bein’ called that?”

Unable to find words, Alexsandr just nodded. His face heated again.

“S’alright.” Garazeb kissed his forehead. “No need to be embarrassed about it.”

“No one ever called me that before,” Alexsandr whispered hesitantly, his sleepiness gone as his nerves started creeping up against his will. His throat tightened before he knew what was happening, a surge of memories flickering through his mind. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing closer, needing more affection. Needing more assurance. It felt like he’d never stop needing it. “I wasn’t that close to people growing up. I couldn’t afford to be. Not when the house wasn’t a good place. And even when I was older, I...I had a wall around me. When I was...intimate...with people...as a cadet...it wasn’t like this. It was just…sex. I didn’t want people to get close enough to start asking questions.”

“Questions,” Garazeb murmured with confused surprise. “About what?” 

Alexsandr shook his head hard and buried his face against a powerful shoulder, his throat tightening until he couldn’t breathe. 

“Hey,” Garazeb whispered less than a moment later, soothing his scalp with gentle fingers. A soft purr started to rumble up from his chest. The calming vibrations soothed him enough that Alexsandr managed to drag in a small sip of air filled with that scent he loved and then another one. “Hey, s’alright. We don’t have to keep talkin’ about it. You’ve opened up enough. Just keep breathin’ for me, babe.”

Alexsandr choked on something that wasn’t quite a laugh and managed a deeper breath as the constriction in his throat continued to ease. One breath after another, he focused on doing what his love asked of him. Once his breathing started to come easier, Garazeb coaxed him out of the bed and out to the refresher, bundling him into the shower large enough to accommodate two Lasats.

Together, Alexsandr and Garazeb washed under a hot cascade of water. 

Afterwards, once he’d finished dressing in his clothes from their mission to Dennogra in preparation for their return to the base, Garazeb led him out to the coop around back and guided him through the process of collecting eggs from the nests. How to soothe the chickens that lingered inside still. It was a quaint and calming process that felt more domestic than Alexsandr could ever have dared to hope for. 

It almost felt like having a home again.

And that was a thought that made his heart swell in his chest. It drove him to reach out and tangle their fingers together as Garazeb led him back into the cottage, humming into the late morning air and clutching a basket of eggs in his free hand.

Breakfast was nothing more than a simple plate of scrambled egg and fried vegetables. 

It was one of the best things he’d tasted.

Alexsandr supposed he might be biased as he washed up afterwards, his love pressing close behind him and snuffling against the back of his neck as he guided the hand holding the scrub brush with a few whispered words. Unwilling to part while there was still time to bask in this closeness, this warmth and affection. Both of them knew there’d have to be a step back once the shuttle returned to Yavin Four, once the pair of them returned to a haphazard existence where a single given moment could be their last.

“I wish we could stay,” Alexsandr confessed as he set the last of the ware on the rack. He let his hands drop to rest at the edge of the sink as an ache bloomed in his chest at the thought of leaving, at the thought of putting themselves back into the path of Grand Admiral Thrawn and the Empire that hunted for them. At the thought of not knowing whether Garazeb would survive his next mission — _their_ next mission — and come back to him. “I wish we could build something here. Together.”

“So do I.” Garazeb sighed and nuzzled the back of his head. “But we can’t. Not until —”

“I know.” Alexsandr dipped his head. “I know that. I’m just…”

“Catastrophisin’.”

“Being realistic,” Alexsandr corrected. “We might never get to come back here.”

“Yeah. Well. I’d rather believe we will.”

“Garazeb…”

“I’m serious,” Garazeb answered. His voice was tight with concern as he urged Alexsandr around to face him. His large fingers gripped his chin. His gaze weighed down on his face like duracrete. “We need to think positive. We can’t just...give up on havin’ a future together. If we start thinkin’ we’ll never be able to come back here, then we never will. Our thoughts have power.”

“I just...don’t want to lose this.”

“Ya won’t. I won’t let that happen.”

“You almost did.” Alexsandr reached up and cupped a furred cheek. “At the shuttle.”

“Ya never did explain what happened.” Garazeb nuzzled into his palm. But the weight of his gaze never left his face. “Ya should explain before I go speak to Ruvan. I don’t want to receive a distorted version of events before I know the truth.”

“You left for that meeting,” Alexsandr said softly, his voice wavering with shame. He started to drop his hand before Garazeb tugged it back into place, covering it with his, his palm warm and soft. It made his heart twist in his chest even as part of him was comforted. “You were going to be reminded of all the horrible things I’d done or helped to do. You were going to leave me for someone better, someone more deserving. That was what I thought. And I wasn’t strong enough to face that. I panicked. I was going to flee.”

Alexsandr paused and drew in a breath before continuing, muttering, “I’d closed the connection to the Force for a few minutes. Just a few minutes. Because I needed a moment without all the awareness, the sense of all the different things around me. I found it too overwhelming after the panicked trek from the cottage. And then Ruvan was there behind me, growling, convinced that I was running back to the Empire. That I was going to tell them where Lira San was. That I was going to get them all killed. I didn’t even get a chance to explain before he hit me. He didn’t stop hitting me. Not until he spotted the bo-rifle.”

“Ya were beat to shit. I remember that. But he...he didn’t have a scratch on him.”

“Because I didn’t fight back!” Alexsandr pulled away, moving around Garazeb, his heart aching at the sound of a startled whine. He took a breath to steel himself against it and added softly, “I swore to the Force...the Ashla...that I’d never hurt another Lasat when Cal introduced us to Zoral and I meant it. Ruvan was going to kill me and I was going to let him. He thought he was doing the right thing. He thought he was keeping his people safe!”

A painful silence fell between them in an instant.

It stretched between them for several agonising moments.

Finally, Garazeb said quietly, “Thinkin’ somethin’ is the right thing doesn’t make it true.”

“I know that!” Alexsandr pinched the bridge of his nose when he realised he’d snapped at his love, the Lasat that meant more to him than the universe at large, without meaning to. His shoulders slumped and his voice gentled. “You don’t need to remind me.”

“Promise me somethin’.” Garazeb gripped his shoulder without warning, his gruff voice almost shaking, and spun him around to face him before cupping his face in both hands, holding him close, his grip warm and firm. Alexsandr swallowed beneath the burning weight of his gaze and moistened his lips. “If somethin’ like this ever happens again in the future, defend yerself. No matter who it is. Promise me.”

“Garazeb —”

“Promise me,” Garazeb growled sharply, cutting him off before Alexsandr could refuse. His grip turned demanding. “Promise me, Sasha.”

“I can’t fight another Lasat —”

“ _Karabast_ , Sasha, ya fuckin’ _can_! Self-defence doesn’t fuckin’ count as breakin’ that vow!”

The immediate and jarring response was almost a roar of rage.

Alexsandr took a step backwards automatically, instinctively, his heart jumping into his throat. A cold sweat broke out across his face as unbidden memories of a much different man flashed across his mind and threatened to send him elsewhere — to a house on Coruscant.

Garazeb froze less than a heartbeat later and then hauled him close immediately, pressing his face into his hair and almost crushing him within the span of his arms, whispering hoarsely, “ _Fuck_. I didn’t mean to scare ya. I just want ya to be _safe_.”

“You didn’t scare me,” Alexsandr said quickly, winding his arms around the Lasat in return. He grazed his fingers over the skin beneath the soft fur he cherished. He rubbed his mutton chops against his neck and wished he could purr, wished he could comfort Garazeb as he’d been comforted so often. Eventually, he pulled back so that Garazeb could read his face, so that he could read how sincere he was as he continued to explain. “The conversation just left me a little stressed and stress makes it easier for...for bad memories to come to the surface. That’s all. I swear.”

Alexsandr could feel Garazeb searching his face, could almost hear his nostrils flaring as he inhaled his scent. He reached up to cup his cheek and stroked a thumb across the ridge, his touch gentle and reassuring. His lips curled around a small smile, the same smile he’d given him on the bench the night before. His smile deepened as the glow of those sensitive ears perked up in response to his touch and to his scent as Garazeb let out a relieved breath before ducking down to kiss his lips, soft and lingering.

“Ya still need to promise me.”

“I promise that I’ll do the best I can to keep from being hurt.”

“That’s all I wanted.” Garazeb pressed their brows together. His warm breath ghosted across his jaw, tickling the skin beneath his mussed mutton chops somewhat. His chest started to rumble around a purr. “M’sorry; I know it came out wrong. I’m not good with words. Not when _I’m_ scared.”

Alexsandr kissed him softly, but earnestly, murmuring his own apologies against his lips between tender kisses. For scaring and upsetting him. For leading him to think that he’d wanted to die, that he’d wanted to give up when Ruvan caught him in the shuttle. And for fleeing that morning. For being a coward. For not trusting him. Alexsandr ran his hands over his furred frame, doing his best to calm those quivering muscles.

“Want me to come? To see Ruvan?”

“No,” Garazeb answered with a sharp shake of his head. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing the locks with gentle fingers. “I don’t trust him not to make another attempt. I’ll speak with him alone. Ya can wait for me in the temple. It’ll be peaceful there. Ya could even ask the Ashla to ensure our safe return. There’s a shrine there. For prayin’. If ya feel like it.”

“The priestesses won’t mind me being there?”

“It should be fine.” Garazeb kissed his forehead. “Chava will be there. We’ll be headin’ into Doross with her and Gron. It’s just easier than takin’ the bike and havin’ them bring it back.”

“Alright.” Alexsandr nodded and released a small breath. “I’ll speak to Chava about what happened outside Zio Snaffkin then. I assume we’ll be heading to the shuttle once all that is done?”

“Yeah. No sense comin’ back here just to go back out there.”

“Alright.” Alexsandr kissed his cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

Quickly, Alexsandr darted to the master bedroom before Garazeb could even blink at him. He retrieved the datachip from where he’d left it the other morning and held it in his hand for a moment or so before shoving it in his inner pocket to keep it safe, zipping it up tight. If he and Garazeb were going to build something together, if there was a _chance_ he and Garazeb could survive the war _long enough_ to build something together, then he’d need the datachip. He’d need the chance of freedom that it offered him. He’d need to confront the memories, the demons, darkening his mind at some point before the end of the war. Alexsandr just wasn’t sure when he’d find the courage, if he ever could.

Swallowing his fears, Alexsandr darted back to Garazeb, slipping a hand around his elbow.

Together, the pair of them stepped outside.

Alexsandr took one last look at the cottage, at its pale glow in the Force, and rubbed a hand over his sternum to soothe the pain that rose as the knowledge that he might never return stabbed through him. With some difficulty, he swallowed and closed his connection as Garazeb guided him away, down the gravel path and out the gate, following the dirt road that led back to Chava and Gron. To Doross. Alexsandr shuffled closer to Garazeb, taking comfort from his presence, vowing that he’d do the best he could to return with him.

Gron and Garazeb chatted about trivial matters during the drive to Doross.

Chava hummed to herself.

Alexsandr sat in silence, appreciating the rush of wind through his hair, feeling his locks and the tails of his blindfold flaring behind him. Idly, he curled his fingers around one of the kyber crystals hanging from his neck and ran his thumb over the point. He thought about the Ashla and the figure he’d seen in his dreams, who’d urged him to trust Jarrus and let go of his fear. He thought about the robes he’d worn to the harvest festival. Purple and silver. All he’d been missing was the deep green lightsaber. Alexsandr couldn’t help wondering whether his meeting with Cal and his later arrival on Lira San had been a sign from the Ashla.

Part of him wanted to scoff at the thought.

Another part of him clung to the idea that the Ashla wanted something from him. That the Ashla wanted to give him a chance to be more than he was, more than he’d ever been before. More than he’d ever thought he could be. That part of him clung to the idea that the Ashla wanted to give him a purpose in the war and perhaps in life in general. The small child he’d once been would have been ecstatic at the thought of being special — at the thought of being taken from the life he’d had on Coruscant.

The man he was now, however, was terrified.

Terrified of the spark.

Terrified of himself.

Terrified of the responsibility, of repeating the mistakes he’d made before.

Garazeb slipped an arm around his shoulders, as though he’d sensed the rising turbulence of his thoughts, and Alexsandr didn’t hesitate to shuffle closer to his side, taking the warmth and affection offered to him. He rested his head below his shoulder and sighed as Garazeb nuzzled the top of his head. The soft purr that followed chased his fears away, helping him to relax into the embrace, their hands joining in the middle of that broad chest.

Alexsandr felt calm when Gron parked the speeder, when Garazeb kissed his forehead before darting across the festival square, heading to the Hall of Justice to speak to Ruvan. He felt somewhat less calm when Gron left him alone with Chava. He was nervous when Chava toddled away, nattering away, expecting him to follow behind her. Alexsandr swallowed and walked carefully, unwilling to open his connection to the Force and use it as a guide, having seen too much of Doross after Ruvan almost killed Garazeb, giving him no choice but to race the speeder through the streets as Chava called out directions while doing her best to keep Garazeb from bleeding out in the backseat.

His heart started thundering in his chest as Alexsandr took the first step of the stone staircase leading into the temple. It was steeper than he’d imagined it would be — steep enough that he almost tripped over it. He took a moment to catch his breath and reminded himself that Doross was designed for people much larger than him. Carefully, Alexsandr continued to climb the staircase, a sweat breaking out on his palms as he wished for a wall or railing to guide and support his ascent to the temple.

It was a relief when he reached the top — such a relief that he didn’t have a choice but to sit down on the stone floor and wipe the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his sleeve. His breath quivered in his chest.

Alexsandr hadn’t counted the steps to the top. Nor had he counted the distance between the steps. The thought of ascending the staircase with nothing to guide him had been horrible enough without knowing how far he’d fall. 

“Oh.” Chava spoke from somewhere deeper into the temple, her voice surprised and embarrassed. She hobbled closer and rested a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry; I’d assumed circumstances had changed after the incident with Ruvan.”

“It’s fine.”

“It isn’t fine.”

“I made this choice, Chava.” Alexsandr touched her hand. “I can handle the consequences.”

“I’ll talk to the High Priestess about making the temple more accessible,” Chava said after a moment of silence, her hand squeezing his shoulder. “You might be able to handle the consequences, but the temple should be available to all. It’s been a few millennia since the temple was last updated. It could use some modifications.”

“Alright. I can accept that.” Alexsandr tilted his head and offered her a smile. He climbed to his feet with care and moved further into the temple, listening to his steps echo. A pleasant aroma assailed his senses, though he wasn’t sure what the scent was. Alexsandr supposed it was something local to Lira San. “Would it be alright to visit the shrine?”

“Of course,” Chava assured him. She took his hand in hers. “The Ashla welcomes all.”

Chava led him deeper into the temple and guided his hand to a stone structure. He ran his hands over the surface for a few moments before frowning. It was too large and unusual to determine what it was supposed to be, but he knew it was where the aroma came from. It wafted around him in thick curls.

Slowly, Alexsandr lowered himself to his knees and bowed his head. He let the door within crack open slightly, just enough to feel a glimmer of the Force, and let himself relax into it as a peaceful silence stretched around him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t think. He just drifted within the peace and tranquillity, letting it filter into his limbs until he was almost boneless, a soft sigh escaping him.

The Force echoed his breath. 

He felt safe. 

He felt welcome. 

He almost felt like he belonged.

* * *

Zeb took a moment to calm himself before stepping into the cell to face Ruvan. A phantom pain flared across his middle as the other survivor raised his head and looked at him over the rim of his holonovel. It wasn’t hard to see the lingering rage and anger, but it was easier still to see the remorse that haunted his gaze. 

“You survived then.” Ruvan lowered his holonovel. “Come to get revenge?”

“That isn’t our way,” Zeb said quietly, ignoring the phantom pain. “Ya know that.”

“Yeah. Well. Following the code didn’t help us on Lasan.” Ruvan turned his face away, his ears flattening against his head. His tan fur bristled. “If we were more ruthless, perhaps more of us would have survived the siege.”

“No, I don’t think so.” Zeb stepped further into the cell and slid down the wall to sit beside him. It was a tight squeeze, but he managed. His own ears drooped somewhat. “I don’t think it would matter what we did. Director Krennic wanted us out of the way; I think we’d be annihilated no matter what we tried.”

A silence filled with shared anguish stretched between them for a moment or so and then Ruvan said quietly, “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. I was angry, _am_ angry, but we...the survivors...we have to stick together. We’re all we have left of our home.”

“You’d have hurt me either way,” Zeb said pointedly, his heart twisting in his chest as he remembered the fear and rage that coursed through him when he saw Ruvan drag a bruised and bloodied Sasha from the shuttle and throw him to the ground. “I love him.”

“I don’t understand how.” 

“Ya might. If ya gave Sasha a chance.” Zeb scrubbed a hand over his face. He didn’t look at Ruvan. He focused on his knees instead. “Ya don’t have to like him. Ya don’t have to forgive him. I’m not even sure _I_ forgive him for the role he had durin’ the siege, but I _know_ we’d have been wiped out with or without him. He was just one fuckin’ button on the machine.”

Another moment of silence stretched between them and then Zeb said softly, though somewhat reluctantly, “It wasn’t easy, comin’ to terms with how I feel about him. But I can’t imagine bein’ without him now.”

“How does the Queen feel about him?”

“She’s willin’ to give him a chance.” Zeb scratched the back of his neck. His ears perked up with something akin to hope. “She gave him a datachip to record his life on. It’ll be used as evidence of his character in his trial at the end of the war. I’m feelin’ hopeful about it. He’s...he’s done a lot of good and he...he wants to do more. It won’t erase what he’s done in the past. But it means somethin’. To me, at least.”

“He didn’t fight back. Not once.” Ruvan shifted awkwardly, a ripple of agitation running through his fur. “I thought he was just surprised. Or that it was a trick. That he was waiting for me to relax.”

“Yeah. Well. Sasha promised the Ashla that he’d never hurt us again.” Zeb couldn’t stop a faint growl from rumbling up from his chest. His ears flattened. “He thought it meant he couldn’t defend himself.”

“Then he’s an idiot.”

“Yeah. He is,” Zeb said through an unbidden huff of fond amusement. He rubbed a hand over the top of his head and ran his palm over an ear, smoothing it out for a moment. “But he’s mine and I will fight to protect him.”

“You’ve made that clear,” Ruvan sighed and deflated beside him. His head thumped against the wall behind them. “I can’t promise that I’ll ever learn to tolerate his presence here. But I won’t attack him again. Not when I know it’ll put the life of another Lasana native at risk.”

“I can live with that.” Zeb turned to look at him and held out his hand. “Ya ever do need to vent some of that anger, ya can just challenge me and we can have it out in the ring. No death matches. Just an honest brawl. Sound good?”

“Sounds good.” Ruvan clasped his hand. His muscles flexed. “I look forward to winning.”

Zeb couldn’t stop a bark of startled laughter from escaping. He thumped the other Lasat with his elbow and rose to his feet in higher spirits than he’d arrived. His ears perking up, Zeb hastened out of the cell and out of the Hall of Justice, eager to get back to his mate.

* * *

From the solitude of his quarters, Thrawn watched the shuttle depart — two months later than he’d have liked. Eli could be stubborn when he wanted to be and he’d been stubborn. So stubborn. The man had refused to leave until Thrawn was walking unimpeded and was released back to the _Chimaera_. It irritated and amused him in the same breath. Exhaling fondly, Thrawn focused on the nearest viewport and thought he could see a dark head of hair. 

Watching him in return.

Something bittersweet lodged in his chest at the thought.

Thrawn hadn’t escorted Eli to the shuttle, but he’d kissed his farewells against his skin earlier that morning, his own features soft as he watched the man sleep.

His personal farewells were a private affair.

It wasn’t for public consumption. 

Thrawn turned from the viewport and stepped out into his office, the mechanical whirring emanating from his lower legs faint beneath his uniform trousers. The sound was an irritant and had been since his prosthetics had been fitted and the neurotransmitters were implanted within his brain. He did his best to ignore the whirring, more than aware that it wasn’t something he could escape — not if he wished to remain as mobile as ever. Thrawn released a breath and settled at his desk. 

He activated his datapad.

He’d ignored his datapad all morning, choosing instead to focus on the man curled up in his bed while he still had the chance. But a small part of him regretted that decision as Thrawn took note of the extensive list of notifications waiting for him.

Slowly, methodically, Thrawn moved through the notifications, beginning with those flagged as urgent. He responded to messages from various moffs and senators, his missives as succinct as possible without sacrificing his usual care with words. He read through and signed off on dozens of reports from the various departments across the _Chimaera_. It was tedious and uninspiring, and one of the various pitfalls of having climbed so high in the ranks, but it needed to be completed all the same.

High Command needed to be kept informed. 

Finally, Thrawn came to the last notification and his gaze narrowed as soon as he opened it to find media files waiting for download. No preceding messages to explain its contents. He checked the source — an Imperial Information Office stationed near Dennogra — and frowned severely; whatever the office had deemed important enough to send to his personal datapad should have been marked urgent.

Thrawn initiated a scan for malware and other threats before downloading the files and opening the first one. He drew in a sharp breath as it revealed two figures walking in the distance, one Garazeb Orrelios and another, shorter figure with a mask concealing his features, but Thrawn would never forget that gait. 

Agent Kallus.

Traitor.

Jedi.

Poisonous thorn in his side.

His lips thinning marginally, Thrawn finished watching the first recording and moved on to the next without a word. Infrequently, he caught glimpses of two other figures — Bridger and another that he didn’t recognise, but who led the Spectres through the streets of Zio Snaffkin.

The last recording, however, caught his attention.

Orrelios and Kallus supporting an unknown Lasat. 

Bridger, deflecting proton torpedoes.

And then Kallus, brazenly, running toward the TIEs recording him and stumbling in the sand.

Thrawn watched his hands move across the familiar bo-rifle, opening an unfamiliar configuration with dexterous hands. His gaze narrowed further. Something akin to discomfort settled in his gut. He’d inspected that weapon closely, he’d familiarised himself with its various forms, and this configuration was new to him. His breath caught a moment later when a vibrant arc of lightning shot from the end of the bo-rifle seconds before the recording went black with the destruction of the TIEs.

Thrawn re-watched that last scene several times, taking in as much detail as possible, before setting down his datapad. He tapped the desktop in thought. He’d seen the Emperor wield lightning before, but not like this. Fuelled with so much hate and anger, the lightning the Emperor wielded burned cold and cruel.

This...this appeared to be warm.

It almost seemed inviting before the feed went black.

Thrawn rose from his chair and returned to the viewport in his chambers, allowing the endless dark and the faint shimmer of distant stars to settle his mind. He clasped his hands behind his back as he reviewed the footage in his mind and dissected its contents. 

Kallus was getting more powerful. 

That much was clear. 

Reluctant to admit that his wits alone couldn’t match such powers, Thrawn pulled the commlink from his belt and contacted the bridge, stating, “Set a course for Coruscant.”

He had to discuss this with the Emperor.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> PLEASE NOTE: This chapter contains spoilers for Dark Disciple, if y'all haven't read it.

Curled up in the back of the shuttle, the blanket draped over his shoulders and his hands cradling his bo-rifle, Alexsandr thought about the time he’d spent in the temple. He thought about the peace he’d experienced. He thought about the murmured conversation he’d had with Chava — about the ancient way, about the endless flow of the Ashla through the cosmos, about the circle of life and death and rebirth.

“Our bodies die,” she’d told him as the pair of them sat beside the shrine, her presence warm and comforting at his side, “but the force that fuels us lives on. When we die, the living force within us joins the cosmos, which absorbs the echo of who we were. It absorbs our smiles, our laughter and our tears, our memories. Eventually, that force is reborn in someone else. We’re all connected. Someone, somewhere out there, had the same gift and now that fragment of the force resides in you.”

The conversation was a heavier burden than he’d expected.

The thought that he carried a fragment of someone else within him didn’t sit well. The thought that he’d tarnished more than just himself made his stomach twist and churn with discomfort and nausea. 

Alexsandr sighed and set his bo-rifle aside before climbing to his feet and moving to the front of the shuttle, where Garazeb watched their course through hyperspace. He needed a distraction or he’d spend the rest of the trek back to Yavin Four thinking in circles. Carefully, he leaned over the pilot’s chair and wrapped his arms around Garazeb slowly, giving him time to pull away, if he wished. His love welcomed him instead. Alexsandr nuzzled his sideburns and couldn’t help smiling when an ear flicked against his face.

A soft purr followed. 

“What does it mean when we do this,” Alexsandr asked softly, his voice little more than a murmur. He turned his face to brush a soft kiss against the edge of that sensitive ear, a quiet huff of laughter escaping when the ear flicked again. “You never explained.”

“S’kissin’ in our culture.” 

“Oh.” His face warmed as he remembered that afternoon in the jungle, remembered the suddenness of that nuzzle and the speed with which Garazeb had fled. He’d kissed Alexsandr then. Suddenly, that moment shifted into perspective and a breathless laugh escaped him. He squeezed Garazeb closer. “Wish I’d known that sooner.”

“Yeah. Well. I wasn’t ready,” Garazeb grumbled. His ears drooped somewhat against the side of his face. “Ya don’t mind that we were kissin’ all that time?”

“No,” Alexsandr murmured. “No, I don’t mind. Actually, I’m pleased.”

“Yeah?” Garazeb turned his head in surprise, his ears perking back up. His warm breath ghosted across his cheek. “Ya don’t feel...robbed...or like I took advantage? I know other cultures aren’t as...tactile...as mine. Not without some form of communication.”

“You communicated enough.” Alexsandr kissed the tip of his nose. His smile deepened. “You were telling me that I mattered to some degree. I might not have known we were kissing, but I knew we were expressing _something_.” 

Garazeb reached up and captured one of his hands. He laced their fingers together, an unspoken reminder of just how well the pair of them fit together. He tugged on his hand and guided him around the chair before pulling him onto his lap. His free hand settled against the small of his back and hugged him close, the pressure warm and gentle, careful. Garazeb nuzzled his face gently, purring, murmuring, “I’m glad I went to that meetin’. I’m glad that Varad was there, that he encouraged me to stop bein’ an idiot.”

Alexsandr basked beneath the welcome, affectionate kisses for several exquisite moments before ducking down and tucking his head under his chin as he snuggled into the warm expanse of his chest. Those powerful arms wound around him without hesitation. Alexsandr relaxed with a contented sigh.

“How long until we reach Yavin Four?”

“Few hours.”

“Good.” Alexsandr wound his own arms around Garazeb, sliding his hands beneath his arms to rest against the middle of that broad back. He felt muscle flex beneath his battlesuit. “You won’t mind me taking a rest then.”

“Nah.” Garazeb grinned into his hair. “Make yerself comfortable, babe.”

Alexsandr did so with relish and it wasn’t long until he succumbed to the soporific furnace nestled beneath his face, the quiet rumbling of content soothing him all the while.

When he woke sometime later, it was to feel the shuttle sliding into a smooth dive as Garazeb held him in place with one arm and guided the shuttle with the other, bringing them down through the atmosphere with care. It wasn’t long until Garazeb initiated the landing sequence, at which point Alexsandr left his lap to fetch his things. 

Alexsandr wasn’t prepared for an unstoppable force to plough into him as soon as the ramp lowered. He choked on a curse and almost toppled over before he managed to catch himself against the wall as a familiar voice growled angrily, “Where the fuck were you?! Is that BLOOD?!”

“What?” Alexsandr looked down automatically, forgetting himself for a moment. And wanted to smack himself in the face for being an idiot. He ran his fingers over his shirt and jacket instead and felt the crusty, dried evidence of the assault from Ruvan that started to flake at his touch. A wave of embarrassment washed through him at the realisation that he’d entered the temple in Doross with dried blood staining his clothes, having remembered to launder his blindfold and not his clothes. But he pushed his embarrassment aside as he tried to reassure Mila. “Oh. It’s not mine. Well. Some of it’s mine. Most of it’s his.” 

Alexsandr pointed behind him with his thumb as Garazeb lumbered forward to join him.

“What the fuck happened?”

“I’d like to know the answer to that question too,” said another familiar voice, one underscored with equal anger and ferocious promises of retribution.

“A reunion. How nice,” Alexsandr said faintly, unsurprised when Sabine Wren shouldered past him to reach Garazeb. He brushed his fingers against a furred forearm before proceeding down the ramp, dragging his sister along, and allowing the two Spectres to have their moment without his presence to ruin it. 

“You never answered the first question.”

“I was with Garazeb. We had an adventure. End of discussion.” Alexsandr continued to drag his sister away, putting as much distance between himself and the Mandalorian as possible. He’d seen what that girl could do; he had no interest in bearing the brunt of it. “But thanks for the concern. I appreciate it.”

“Was it the Empire?”

“No.”

“Pirates?”

“Mila.” Alexsandr bit her name out between clenched teeth. He felt muscles twitching in his cheek. His grip tightened around her arm a fraction. “Stop asking. I can’t go into more detail than I have. It’s vital that I keep silent on the matter. Just accept that what happened won’t be happening again. Garazeb took care of it.”

“Don’t fucking grip me like that.” Mila wrenched her arm free. “Dad used to do that.”

Alexsandr froze at once and inhaled sharply, feeling colour drain from his face at the mention of their father, at the idea that he’d treated her like that. He shoved his hands into his pockets to conceal the resultant tremors and apologised immediately, stumbling over the words in his haste.

“You didn’t mean it like that.” Mila blew out a stiff breath. “I know that. Just. Don’t.”

“I won’t do it again.” Alexsandr made the promise quietly, his voice soft with affection and concern. He kept his hands in his pockets when all he wanted was to reach out for her, to give one of her tresses a tug with gentle fingers. “You were concerned about me. I know that and I know it makes it hard to keep from asking questions, but I _am_ fine. You can come back to the room with me and check me over, if it would help.”

“Alright.” She gave his shoulder a light shove with her hand. “Let’s keep moving then.”

A tense silence settled between them as Alexsandr led Mila back to his quarters, where the twin bunks taunted him. He paused in the doorway, his frame tightening with a sudden burst of uncertainty, before forcing himself to release a breath and stepping inside. He and Garazeb could discuss sleeping arrangements later. For now, Alexsandr opted to settle at one end of his own bunk and gestured for Mila to sit at the other.

Mila ignored him. She avoided sitting down altogether, choosing instead to come closer and catch his chin in her fingers, tilting his head up. She studied his face carefully, tilting his head to one side and then the other. The fingers of her other hand darted through his hair, checking his scalp, and Alexsandr offered a faint smile as she found nothing. She released his chin and ran a quick hand over his chest through his shirt. Finally, Mila seemed satisfied that he wasn’t hiding a wound and took a seat beside him with a tired sigh.

“I _was_ worried.” Mila spoke softly, her voice unsure. Her clothes rustled and the mattress shifted beneath her weight as she leaned forward at his side, her arm brushing against his as she dug her elbows into her thighs. “Without warning, you were gone, and no one on that crew would tell me where. If Zeb hadn’t gone too, I might have thought…”

Mila trailed off and left her thought unfinished. 

Without thinking, Alexsandr slid an arm over her back and tugged on one of her curls, his fingers careful.

Mila released a strained laugh and then said quietly, “I went back. You know. To the house.”

Alexsandr froze at her words, his fingers still wrapped around a curl. His breath lodged in his chest. He hadn’t expected to hear that. He’d _never_ have expected to hear that. His fingers slipped from her hair as she straightened and surprised him with a second hug, quick and tight. His hands shook as he wrapped his arms around her in return and held her just as tight.

“You were gone. And I was so scared and so angry, and the house was covered in police droids,” Mila croaked into his shoulder, her voice muffled. But he heard it. “I didn’t know what to do. So I just...ran again. I kept running and didn’t stop. Not until Zan found me. Eating food from the fucking trash.”

“I did too. I ran as far as I could when I saw the police droids at the house.” Alexsandr withdrew a little and ran a gentle hand over her face, catching a few loose tresses in the process and managing to sweep them aside. His own voice choked up as he remembered that night when he was ten. When Mila was fifteen. “When the holoposters started showing up, I thought that was it. Someone would find me and I’d have to...talk. About that night. What happened at the house. I...I couldn’t face that. I still can’t. I haven’t told a soul.”

“I get it.” Mila nodded against his hand for a moment. Another strained laugh escaped her as she withdrew, her arm brushing against his face as she wiped her tears with her sleeve. “It took a long time for me to be able to tell Zan. I haven’t been able to tell Taris. It’s been half a decade and our relationship still feels a little too new, too fragile, and I’m not sure how well he’d be able to deal with me being a fucking mess. He loves me. A lot. But. Yeah. I don’t know.”

“You should give him more credit.” Alexsandr tugged on one of her curls. “He’s a good man.”

“Does Zeb know?”

“No.” Alexsandr pulled his hand back and shook his head. Without thinking, he started fidgeting with the cuff of his sleeve. “He…he knows the house wasn’t a good place. I told him that this morning. But I haven’t gone further than that. I don’t know how. I avoid even thinking about that house, if I can. One day, I’ll be able to tell him. I think. I hope. I trust Garazeb more than I’ve trusted anyone in a long time and I think he knows that.”

“You smell like him.”

Alexsandr choked on a burst of surprised laughter and then smiled. A large part of him was glad for the chance to leave the tougher subject behind. He couldn’t help blurting, “I should hope so. I fell asleep in his arms last night.”

Mila choked in surprise at his response and then laughed before wrapping an arm around his shoulder, hauling him close and pressing her forehead against his temple, gasping, “Look at that! My baby brother, all grown up!”

“Shut up.” His face warmed. “It isn’t the first time I’ve been with someone.”

“Yeah. But I wasn’t there for those, so none of them count.”

Alexsandr elbowed her in the chest.

Hard.

Mila elbowed him back.

Harder. 

Before long, it developed into an aggressive brawl that spilled onto the floor, the pair of them laughing despite themselves.

Strangely, it reminded Alexsandr of afternoons spent squirming and squealing, laughing as he tried to escape his sister, whose favourite pastime was to pin him down and tickle him until he cried. It reminded him of evenings spent leaning over the bathtub, spluttering as Mila hit him in the face with water from the hose when she was supposed to be washing his hair. It reminded him of desserts he’d tried to smush into her face while she tried to keep him at bay, squawking for help from their mother, who’d chuckle and give his arm an extra nudge before smiling and swiping a blob of cream from Mila’s nose as she spluttered with indignation.

It brought a swell of happiness to his chest and Alexsandr held onto that swell of warmth long after Mila left him to meet Zan and Taris for dinner and drinks.

In the morning, not long after the sun rose, and still surfing the swell of happiness from the previous day, Alexsandr went in search of Chan Huzo and found her in the mess, helping the cooks prepare vegetables, fruits, and meats for the hours ahead of them. She perked up at the sight of him and abandoned her pile of potatoes in favour of running out from behind the counter, an audible skip in her step and a grin in her voice as she said brightly, “Mr Sasha!”

“Hello, Ms Huzo,” Alexsandr greeted with a small smile, one tinged with amusement upon hearing her greeting, though he was relieved that she’d stopped calling him Agent Kallus at long last. He braced himself for the hug that came a few moments later. He took an automatic step back as she collided with his middle, his hand coming to rest at the back of her head. Her skin was smooth and soft to the touch. “You’re doing well this morning, hm?”

“Yes!”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Alexsandr crouched to be closer to her level and said quietly, “I have something for you.”

“You do?!” Chan perked up even more. “What is it?!”

Alexsandr reached up and pulled one of the kyber crystals from the cord around his neck. He held it out carefully, stating, “Cal Kestis, a Jedi from the Clone Wars, wanted me to find a good home for this. You should have it.”

Chan gasped and plucked it from his hands a moment later, the sound of her wonder obvious.

“It’s beautiful.” A note of confusion filtered into her voice. “But what is it?”

“It’s kyber,” Alexsandr answered with a soft smile. “The Jedi use them to power their weapons. I thought it might be useful in the future. Kanan Jarrus has his hands full right now, but I’m sure we’ll be able to find a teacher. This crystal wouldn’t have come into my hands otherwise.”

“I have a teacher. His name is Plo!”

Alexsandr swallowed as his ears started to ring, the name as familiar to him as all those who’d fought in the Clone Wars. His mind rebelled against the idea. It wasn’t possible. Plo Koon was dead — he’d been incinerated when his aethersprite exploded and crashed on Cato Neimoidia at the hands of his own Clone Troopers. Alexsandr captured her smaller hands in his and squeezed as he said quietly, but gently, “I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. Plo Koon died a long time ago, Ms Huzo.”

“I know that.” Chan huffed at him. She pulled her hands from his and Alexsandr could almost hear her pressing her fists into her hips like a scolding parent. The image was both endearing and somewhat distressing as she continued willfully, adding, “He’s a ghost! Master Yoda taught him something special!” 

If Alexsandr could have blinked at that moment in time, he would have.

“He’s a _ghost_?”

“Yup,” Chan confirmed enthusiastically, her voice brightening again. Alexsandr could hear her bouncing on the balls of her feet with excitement. “He’s all blue and see-through. Kind of like a holoprojection that no one else can see! Just me!”

“No one else has seen him? Not even Kanan Jarrus?”

“No, not even him.” Alexsandr heard Chan shake her head. “I’m not even supposed to tell people, because Master Plo said it’s a guarded secret of the Force, and in the wrong hands, it could be dangerous. But I know I can trust the person who helped save me from the Inquisitors. You’re good. I can tell. Master Plo thinks so too.”

Chan surprised him with another hug, succeeding in knocking him onto his backside.

Alexsandr grunted in surprise, his hand rising to cup the back of her head again as she laughed in delight. His heart warmed in his chest at the sound. But his mind worried over what she’d said. If what she said was true, and some spectral being was visiting her, Alexsandr knew it couldn’t be Plo Koon. No one on the Jedi Council would have believed it possible for someone like him to be worthy, not knowing what he’d done on Lasan and other planets.

“I’m not a good person.” Alexsandr shook his head. “It can’t be Plo Koon.”

“Well. _Master Plo_ said to ask _Caleb Dume_ about _Asajj Ventress_!”

Alexsandr pursed his lips as he realised he wasn’t going to get further with the girl. She was adamant the ghost...or whatever it was...was the deceased Jedi Master and nothing was going to convince her otherwise. He released a breath and said quietly, “I will find him and I’ll ask him about her, but...just be careful. Keep a level head for me. If... _Master Plo_...starts encouraging things that don’t feel right...come to me or Kanan Jarrus — or Captain Orrelios — at once. Is that understood?”

“I don’t think I’ll need to, but alright.”

The pair of them climbed to their feet and dusted themselves off. Chan hugged him once more before heading behind the counter, returning to her pile of potatoes.

Alexsandr lingered for a moment before turning on his heel and leaving the mess, his head reeling from the unexpected conversation he’d had with the Kel Dorian child. Remembering the Bogan whispering in his dreams about making promises to him as a boy, and remembering what Jarrus said about the Bogan and its abilities, he made a beeline for the _Ghost_ in the hangar and allowed his connection to the Force to crack open. Alexsandr wasn’t able to contain his relief when he found Jarrus and Hera in the galley, sitting at the dejarik table and drinking caf.

Jarrus started to turn in the nanosecond before he called his name.

“You seem disturbed. What is it?”

Almost as soon as Jarrus spoke, Hera brushed his arm with gentle fingers and rose from her seat before leaving the galley, heading deeper into the ship, leaving them to discuss the issue alone. 

“I need help.” Alexsandr hastened to the dejarik table and grabbed his arm tightly, his fears starting to blossom in his veins. His throat tightened. “The Huzo girl. I think she might be in trouble. I mean...I’m not sure, but...I’m worried about her. She said she’s been training with someone, but the person she mentioned died during Order 66.”

Jarrus fumbled his cup of caf before asking, his voice trembling, “Who?”

“She said it was Plo Koon. But that’s not possible, is it?”

“I...don’t think so...but I don’t pretend to be an expert on the Force. Ezra and I have had visions of Master Yoda in the past and I’d thought it wasn’t possible at the time. But I never finished training, not officially, and there is a lot that I don’t know. There is a lot that the Jedi Masters never had a chance to teach me.”

“She said Yoda taught Koon something special.” His throat tightened further, his fear for the girl increasing, sending waves of dread through him and into the Force around him. “And that it was an important secret that had to be kept out of the wrong hands, but she told me because Koon thinks I’m a good person and _that_ worries me. No one on the council would have said something like that about me!”

“What else did she say,” Jarrus asked quietly, his voice solemn and somewhat worried.

“I told her what I thought.” Alexsandr relinquished his arm and started pacing, his shoulders hunching slightly, his fingers curling around the cuffs of his sleeves. His nerves continued to ramp higher. His voice grew sharper with his growing agitation. “And she said that Master Plo said to ask Caleb Dume about Asajj Ventress, as if that would prove something. I remember Ventress from the Clone Wars, but who the fuck is Caleb Dume?”

Jarrus dropped his cup.

It shattered and Alexsandr jumped at the sound. 

Hot caf spilled across the table.

“Me,” Jarrus whispered before Alexsandr could ask what was wrong. “I’m Caleb Dume.” 

“What?!”

“It was the name I was born with.” Jarrus wrapped his arms around himself. His voice dropped to little more than a murmur as he explained. “The name I let die sometime after Order 66, after Master Billaba was killed on Kaller. Zeb, Rex, Ezra, Hera, and Dodonna know now, but no one else. Zeb, Ezra, and Rex weren’t supposed to find out but Cal let the tooka out of the bag when we went to infiltrate the complex on Lothal.” 

“Well.” Alexsandr pushed a hand back through his hair, pulling it back from his face. Without thinking, he retrieved a towel from one of the cupboards to wipe up the spilled caf before it could spill onto Jarrus’ lap. “What am I supposed to find out about Ventress then? What information is supposed to prove this...spectre...is who he claims to be?”

“Ventress trained with Count Dooku. She did terrible things at his command. You must know that much from the news broadcasts. You mightn’t know that he turned on her at some point during the war and tried to have her killed.” Jarrus blew out a breath and shifted back from the table as Alexsandr cleaned it down. “The pair became vicious enemies after that. She tried to kill him several times before realising she wasn’t strong enough and giving up. She later became a bounty hunter. But...not long before the end of the war, the council sent Master Vos to look for her, get close to her, and use her to get access to Dooku and assassinate him. I wouldn’t have even known about this, except Vos was never the same afterwards and I was the kind of child that never stopped asking questions. What happened during that mission and in the aftermath...haunted him. Until the end.”

Alexsandr threw the soiled towel in the hamper nearby, his attention still fixed on Jarrus, and asked sharply, “Haunted him how?”

“Vos fell in love with her, Alexsandr, and she fell for him too. It was a sordid scandal at the temple. He’d done what we’d been taught never to do: he developed an attachment and for someone who’d done such terrible things, someone who’d killed innocents, someone who’d killed other Jedi before. Ventress taught him how to wield the dark side in her efforts to prepare him for his task…but Vos succumbed to the darkness when their assassination attempt failed and Dooku took him prisoner.”

Alexsandr stiffened at once, snapping, “I don’t understand. What reason could this spectre have for me learning this?”

“Because Ventress gave up the dark side in her last moments,” Jarrus said quietly, rising from his chair to grasp his shoulder. He squeezed and Alexsandr stared at the Jedi through the Force, his heart lodged in his throat. “She loved Vos more than she hated Dooku — more than she hated those who’d made her suffer — and she died a servant of the light side and pulled Vos from the dark side in the process. She _saved_ Vos. Master Kenobi thought she’d done more than that. He thought she’d saved the order, that she’d reminded them of who we were supposed to be, that she’d pointed out their mistakes and where such things would lead. There were few who knew, but the council pardoned her past actions as a Sith and buried her on her homeworld. I remember Vos and Kenobi leaving with her casket.”

Alexsandr inhaled sharply, his mind racing, and his blood thundering in his ears.

“I think she might be telling the truth. Chan.”

“But…how can we be sure? Surely, the dark side would know such things as well.”

“Yes, but I think we’d know if the dark side was influencing her,” Jarrus said quietly, his voice more confident than it had been before. “I’ve witnessed such things before. Ezra...after I was blinded on Malachor...was...vulnerable to the dark side dwelling inside the Sith holocron we removed from the temple there. He felt so alone, and so angry, and it showed in how he interacted with the people around him. How he carried out his missions. The holocron was fuelling his behaviour. If Chan was showing a sudden shift in her behaviour, Dr Huzo would be concerned. She’d come to us.” 

“Have I been a fool then?”

“No.” Jarrus squeezed his shoulder again. “It’s important that we keep watch over children like Chan. Times like these are dangerous for the impressionable and I’d rather we discuss these worries instead of pushing them down. Coming to me was the right decision. You did good.”

Alexsandr swallowed and released a breath as a small wave of relief washed through him. His instincts were sound even though his worries were unfounded. Another breath and the tension in his frame started to ease, leaving an ache between his shoulders and down the length of his spine. Tiredness washed over him a few moments later and Alexsandr asked softly, “Up for another cup of caf?”

“I’d love one,” Jarrus said with a grateful smile.

It wasn’t long until the pair of them were seated together, soothing their frazzled nerves with the welcome heat of caf.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> I look forward to hearing what y'all think!

The weeks that followed were an interesting time for Alexsandr. One of the first things he’d noticed was that his renewed relationship with Mila became easier to maintain. The moments of stiffness and awkwardness began to fade. It was a slow process, far slower than he’d like, but it was progress all the same.

Similarly, his position within the rebellion grew stronger. Where he’d once spent endless hours in the quarters he shared with Garazeb, keeping his distance from the other rebels when he wasn’t memorizing the expanse of the base, Alexsandr now found himself working with the mechanics in the hangar — with Zan and countless others. His connection with the Force allowed him to find discordant areas in the flow of the Force through malfunctioning ships and droids. It allowed him to find and repair weak spots. It allowed him to reach where his hands and others’ couldn’t. Having the chance to return to his roots, to his love of droids and working with his hands, felt like a blessing. 

In the same span of time, his relationship with Garazeb seemed to flourish. It became a welcome routine to fall asleep within the warm span of his arms, to wake up to soft kisses against his hair and shoulders, to feel his smile against the corner of his mouth. What began as an awkward conversation before separating for the start of a shift became a quick peck on the cheek before Garazeb darted off to start his routine patrols. What began as stolen moments wedged behind stacks of crates and within darkened alcoves became the blatant slide of a large arm around his shoulders as Alexsandr joined the Spectres for a captioned holofilm once a week and a tender nuzzle against his cheek as the pair of them shared a bowl of salted bangcorn.

What began as a morning jog together twice a week became vigorous sparring sessions that left Alexsandr breathless, his muscles tired and aching, but his face splitting with euphoria as he and Garazeb danced around each other, bo-staves whirling around their bodies, charges set to a mild stun. If he felt a thrill of something hot and tight in his abdomen whenever Garazeb slammed him into a tree, using their crossed bo-staves to pin his hands in place, that was his own business. If he felt a thrum of dark satisfaction whenever he managed to knock the Lasat flat on his back and straddle him in the process, no one was there to stand witness, but for Garazeb, who welcomed his fervent kisses with eagerness, large hands abandoning his bo-staff in favour of gripping his hips tight.

The sparring sessions were invigorating, of course, but the nights the pair of them spent together were exquisite. Whenever possible, Alexsandr and Garazeb explored each other in their quarters, their bunks joined to form a double, the Lasat pressing him against the mattress with gentle care. Slowly, Alexsandr grew more accustomed to stripping, to showing his scars, to letting Garazeb lavish them with kisses and caresses without flinching, without tensing against unwelcome memories of someone else. Slowly, the sensuous slide of soft fur against his naked skin became less overwhelming, less devastating, and the speed with which he fell asleep after orgasming beneath the Lasat slowed. It slowed enough to let him return the favour with a shaking press of his hand between those strong thighs, his breath catching in his chest at how slick Garazeb was, his large cock — his immense size both daunting and impressive — throbbing against his palm.

Slowly, strained grunts and feverish growls became music to his ears, joining the catalogue of other sounds that made his heart clench in his chest and made his stomach flip, made his own cock attempt to harden again. Slowly, the sound of fabric tearing and metal crumpling beneath that powerful grip became a welcome sign that Garazeb craved his touch as much as he craved the Lasat in return. 

Being with him felt like a step in the right direction. 

Unfortunately, Alexsandr couldn’t claim the same for his training with Jarrus. 

Over and over, his shield flickered in and out of existence without protecting him from the stones Bridger hurled at him. Over and over, Bridger made unwelcome remarks about his efforts, as if Alexsandr wasn’t doing his best to overcome the knots of fear inside him. As if he wasn’t doing his best to master himself and master the spark within him. Over and over, Jarrus watched him in silence, offering nothing but close scrutinisation. Over and over, Alexsandr stormed from the training room in an exhausted rage, hating them both and hating himself for his failure to do as instructed — his failure to do as the Ashla wished. 

It was just his luck that Garazeb crossed his path as Alexsandr stormed back to Base One on one such morning, his face hot with anger and his curled fists shaking, his hair dishevelled and damp with sweat from repeated efforts to form and maintain the shield — just to be knocked on his backside again and again as the stones clocked him over and over, hurtling through the air too fast for him to avoid. Sensing the waves of silent disappointment rolling off Garazeb was worse than the remarks from Bridger, worse than the scrutinisation from Jarrus.

Alexsandr turned on his heel as soon as he sensed the Lasat and stormed in a different direction in an attempt to avoid him. He ignored the note of concern as Garazeb called after him. He walked faster when he heard loping strides following him. He couldn’t deal with Garazeb on top of his own failure, on top of the judgement from Jarrus and Bridger. Alexsandr broke into a run when Garazeb started gaining on him and crashed into the jungle, tearing through the underbrush with bitten snarls and something that wasn’t quite a roar of rage, but came too close for comfort.

Garazeb overtook him less than a mile from the treeline, his large presence cutting him off. 

Alexsandr skidded to a stop, kicking up dirt and leaves, bugs and twigs. 

“Hey,” Garazeb said quietly, reaching for him in concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t.” Alexsandr jerked away, the shake in his hands spreading outwards, affecting his arms and his shoulders, his knees, his voice. His breath came quicker, sending an ache flaring across his chest and out through his back. “Don’t touch me. I’m not stable right now. I don’t want to hurt —”

“Hurt me?” The confusion in his voice was immediate. “You’d never hurt me.”

“You don’t know that.” Alexsandr shook his head. Hard. He took another step backwards, almost stumbling over a tree root in the process. He managed to catch himself before toppling over, his palm and fingers scraping across rough bark. It stung. Alexsandr cursed and pulled his hand to his chest as he shook his head again. “I’ve hurt people before.”

“We’ve talked about Thrawn before —”

“No,” Alexsandr choked out. He tried to put more distance between himself and Garazeb, but the Lasat took two steps for each one he took. It wasn’t long until those large hands seized his upper arms, just below his shoulders, grip firm and secure, relentless. Alexsandr pushed a hand against the barrel of his chest and tried to keep Garazeb at bay, almost tripping over his tongue as he tried to explain. “Not Thrawn. Someone I....someone I _loved_.”

“Whatever it is,” Garazeb said softly, squeezing his arms gently, “ya have to confront it. Ya can’t begin to move on without facin’ what happened. Ya can’t begin to overcome these emotions without addressin’ the root behind them.”

“I can’t!”

“Sasha, love —”

His heart thundering in his ears, the anger now a crushing wave of panic, Alexsandr kicked him in the shin and broke free as soon as Garazeb jerked back in pained surprise, his grip losing tension at once. He stumbled around the Lasat and crashed deeper into the jungle, his lungs threatening to seize in his chest. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop running. 

If he stopped....

If he _stopped_....

“Sasha,” Garazeb called behind him. His voice was as gentle as ever. “Ya have to let go.”

Alexsandr wasn’t prepared for a tree root to jerk upwards in his path. He wasn’t prepared for it to catch his ankle and send him crashing to the ground. He wasn’t prepared for the scrape of rough bark against his cheek. He wasn’t prepared for the sting of hot tears, soaking into his blindfold and burning over the raw scrape on his cheek. Alexsandr choked on something that wasn’t quite a sob as gentle, but powerful hands hauled him up from the ground and held him in place, familiar ridges coming to rest against his forehead.

Garazeb cradled his uninjured cheek with one hand and carded the other through his hair.

“Talk to me, Sasha.”

“I can’t.”

“Ya can.” With a gentle thumb, Garazeb swiped through his tear tracks. “Ya _can_.”

“I…”

“ _Trust me_ , love. _Please_.”

“Garazeb,” Alexsandr choked out in a horrified whisper, “I...I _killed_ her.”

“Who?”

“My mama.” Alexsandr choked on the unwelcome words, the shape of them catching in his constricted throat and threatening to lodge there before a broken sob forced them out. He’d never said them aloud before. Alexsandr covered his mouth with a shaking hand and felt his knees buckle, the weight of the words slamming down on his shoulders and the weight of his memories suffocating him. “ _I killed my mama_.”

Garazeb dropped to the ground with him and crushed him close, his powerful arms winding tight around him.

Alexsandr could feel it in the distance, but all he could see was the house on Coruscant. His parents’ bodies still and lifeless, a pool of blood spreading across the wooden floor, sinking into the grooves and crawling towards him and Mila. All he could see was Mila looking at him in terror and fleeing, almost falling twice in her haste to escape him.

Alexsandr didn’t come back to himself until he felt a tug on his hair, tugging him back to the present. The insistent rub of soft fur against his face began to ground him to that moment in the jungle. It tethered him to Garazeb, made him more susceptible to the urgent purring vibrating through his skin. Alexsandr managed to drag in a ragged breath and then another, one hand still crushed against his mouth and the other fisting that familiar fur. 

Garazeb was gentle, so gentle, his large frame beginning to rock back and forth as he purred and rubbed soothing kisses into his mutton chops. He soothed him until Alexsandr slumped in his embrace, clinging to him with whatever scraps of strength he had left. Slowly, Garazeb shuffled across the ground and braced his back against a tree, pulling him between the spread of his thighs and gathering him against the breadth of his chest.

“Talk to me,” Garazeb whispered for the second time, the words almost disappearing into his hair. He brushed tender kisses against his dishevelled locks. His large hand soothed down his neck and between his shoulders, his thumb massaging a lingering knot of tension out of existence. “Ya can take a few moments, but please...please talk to me. Tell me what happened.”

“Dad used to beat her,” Alexsandr whispered sometime later, once he managed to muster the courage, his voice ragged with emotion. His fingers moved to grip that familiar battlesuit and keep himself tethered to the Lasat holding him. “Not in front of us. But we knew. We could hear it at night. As soon as he started shouting, I’d crawl into the wardrobe and hide there. I tried to block those awful sounds out. I begged for it to stop. Over and over, I begged. But it never stopped.”

Garazeb slid his hand upwards, tangling his fingers in his hair, but didn’t speak.

“He had...rules.” Alexsandr buried his face in his shoulder, dragging in a breath filled with that scent he loved in an attempt to calm himself. “There were so many, it was hard to remember them all at times. Mila and I broke them often. Usually, without meaning to. Whenever he got angry, Mama would distract him. She’d draw his attention to her instead of us. She...protected us.” 

Garazeb squeezed him closer, still purring.

“No Droids was one of his most important rules,” Alexsandr croaked as he clung to Garazeb desperately, pressing even closer in search of more warmth and tenderness, though he knew he was undeserving, “and it was the one I found hardest to follow. All I ever wanted was to work with droids, to build and program them. I loved them so much. Mila used to sneak me tools and parts, used to listen to me babble about them for hours. I used to hide the things she gave me under loose floorboards when I heard Dad coming home, knowing he’d come searching, as always, but I must have missed something. I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

Alexsandr choked on a strangled sob as memories of that night came rushing to the surface.

“All I remember is watching a holofilm with Mila and then Dad shouting at the top of his lungs and thundering down the stairs, and Mama racing in to pull me from the couch — to tell me to run as fast as I could. But I didn’t run. I was frozen.”

Garazeb inhaled sharply, the sound loud in the silence around them.

“Dad came charging at me.” Alexsandr didn’t resist the hands that rubbed soothing lines over his back and scalp as the unwelcome image of his father almost overwhelmed his senses. His voice grew smaller, more strained. “Mama threw herself at him. The caf table broke under them. I remember Mila grabbing me, dragging me back from the fight. I remember us being separated as Dad and Mama kept fighting, crashing into one surface after another. I remember sliding down the wall and curling up. I remember screaming for them to stop and feeling this rush of something inside me. And then they slammed into the wall. Crumpled on the floor. There was so much _blood_.”

“How old were you?”

“Ten.”

Almost as soon as Alexsandr answered Garazeb, another wave of painful tears came spilling down his face, stinging his scraped cheek and soaking into his mutton chops. The memories of his mother and what he’d done to her repeated in his mind again and again. Each agonised sob tore through him like a jagged knife. Instinct drove him to wrap his arms around himself as though it might stop his anguish from spilling out like entrails. 

“ _Karabast_.” Garazeb tightened his arms around him and held him so close, his large face buried in his hair, his purr deepening into something closer to a protective growl. His hand stopped stroking through his hair, coming to rest over his head like a warm blanket instead. “Ya were just a fuckin’ _kid_. Yer reluctance to let the Ashla back in is fuckin’ understandable, knowin’ all that.”

Alexsandr didn’t respond.

Silence stretched for several moments before Garazeb growled softly, “I don’t understand how somethin’ like this could happen. Ya lived on Coruscant! The home of the Jedi! The order could find force-sensitive kids in the Outer Rim Territories, of all places, but couldn’t find kids that needed trainin’ and protection on their own fuckin’ planet?”

“The Jedi _did_ know,” Alexsandr croaked through his tears. “Master Jaro came to the house!”

“Jaro?” Garazeb’s voice sharpened. “Jaro Tapal?!”

“He ran from me. He was afraid. I didn’t know why, not then.” Alexsandr pressed closer to Garazeb, as if he could merge with the warmth and comfort of his chest. “Later, after what happened at the house, I thought it was because he knew I’d become a murderer. That he knew I’d kill Mama. When he came to the house, he meditated with me and he saw...something. It was too fast and too loud for me to figure out. But I knew it had to be terrible to scare a Jedi. I don’t blame him for running, for leaving me there.”

“Yeah. Well. I _do_ blame Jaro,” Garazeb said roughly, forcing him back until he could stare straight at him. His large hand cradled his tear-soaked cheek. His claws pressed against his scalp, firm and furious, but never breaking the skin. Alexsandr clutched at him in return as the Lasat continued to say, “You’re not to blame for what happened that night! Ya were just a fuckin’ child. Ya were terrified and upset. Ya were left in a dangerous house, with powers too great for an untrained child. Whatever Jaro saw, it didn’t give him the right to abandon a child in fuckin’ need.”

The noise Alexsandr made wasn’t human.

He’d never expected to hear such words.

Such forgiveness. 

“ _Karabast_. I need to have a word with Chava about this. About Jaro.”

Shifting his grip around Alexsandr, Garazeb climbed to his feet and scooped him into his arms without pausing, another protective growl rumbling up from the barrel of his chest as Alexsandr slid his arms around his neck automatically, still choking on the emotions coursing through him. 

Alexsandr didn’t know when the tears faded to strangled hiccoughs and ragged breaths. He didn’t know when the exhaustion sank deep into his bones, leaving him drained. He didn’t know when the jungle undergrowth turned to stone and the clammer of the rebel base. All he knew was the soft warmth pressing against his face, the strong arms cradling him securely, and the rumbling breaths that whispered through his hair. All he knew was the hiss of a familiar door sliding open and the welcome scent of their bedclothes as Garazeb set him down on their bunk and covered him with the blankets.

All Alexsandr knew was the gentle stroke of a hand over his hair before sleep took him.

* * *

Zeb gazed down at his mate as Sasha slipped into slumber, skin red and swollen where his tears had streamed down his face, and a protective anger burned in his chest. Of all the things to leave a child scared of the Ashla, he’d never thought it would be something so gruesome. He ducked down to brush a kiss against his forehead and smoothed his hand over his hair one last time before rising and pulling his datapad from his belt as he slipped out of their quarters and sealed the door to protect his sleeping mate. Zeb knew this was a conversation he couldn’t have through text.

His breathing quickening with anger, Zeb found the nearest vacant room and activated his datapad. His muscles starting to quiver with the strength of his emotions, he searched through his contacts and opened a holocommunication as he reached the former High Priestess’ name.

A few agonising minutes passed before a holoprojection of her wrinkled face materialised above his datapad and blinked at him in surprise. Concern flickered across her features less than a heartbeat later as she asked cautiously, “What happened?”

“Jaro fuckin’ happened.” A deep growl rumbled up from his chest as Zeb pointed an accusing finger at her. His voice sharpened with the same accusation. “Ya knew he met Sasha when he was a child! Don’t even _think_ of tellin’ me Jaro didn’t come rushin’ back to Lasan and mention findin’ the Warrior!”

“He did tell me he’d found the Warrior,” Chava confirmed quietly, a grave expression washing over her holoprojected face under the weight of his accusation. “You walked in on us talking about him.”

“Excuse me?!”

“You didn’t realise the weight of the conversation at the time.” Chava bowed her head and she deflated around a sigh. “You were around fourteen and I wasn’t forthcoming with information. It wasn’t time for the Child to know about him.”

Fourteen?!

Zeb pressed his hand over his face and inhaled sharply, searching through thousands of moments to find the one she meant. The conversation he’d interrupted. It took him a few seconds, but found one that stood out more than the rest — a morning he’d visited the temple before running drills and headed down into the lower levels to look for the High Priestess at the request of his grandmother, surprised to hear Master Jaro and Chava whispering back and forth to each other in her office, almost too low for him to hear from the hall.

“Found who,” Zeb had asked as he’d poked his head around the door, ears perking up.

Jaro had straightened so fast that he’d almost hit his head against a bookshelf. 

“Just a friend I was looking for,” Chava had answered quietly, a warm and welcoming smile on her face as Zeb had stepped further into the office, padding across the old stone. “You needed me for something, Garazeb?”

“Nan wanted me to ask ya over for dinner tonight.” Zeb had grinned at Chava brightly, his ears flicking. “She said she’s whippin’ up somethin’ special and that Nahosa is makin’ some more of that wine ya like!”

“Oh. Excellent.” Chava had risen from her chair behind her desk almost immediately, her smile broadening, and she’d started steering him towards the door with a gentle hand. “Tell her I’m looking forward to it. I’ve missed her cooking.”

He’d been so trusting; he hadn’t even questioned their behaviour.

Zeb squeezed his lashes against his cheeks as the conversation flashed through his mind. His stomach knotted with discomfort. His hand tightened around his datapad threateningly, the increasing pressure earning a creak from its casing. He _was_ fourteen at the time. His discomfort turned into horror as Zeb realised Sasha was six when Jaro ran from the house on Coruscant.

Just six.

His stomach rebelled.

Zeb almost didn’t manage to set his datapad down on a shelf before the need to vomit brought him to his knees, the acrid remnants of his breakfast burning up his throat and spilling onto the floor in front of him.

“Garazeb?!” 

“Did he fuckin’ mention the house was abusive,” Zeb asked once he’d finished throwing up, his stomach sore and the taste vile on his tongue, his words travelling upwards to find his datapad and the holocommunication. He dashed the back of his hand across his mouth before dragging himself backwards and bracing himself against the inside of the door. “It traumatised Sasha!”

“I knew the house wasn’t comfortable, but I didn’t know the extent until it was too late.” Chava released a breath somewhere above him. Her voice took on a wounded note. “Jaro was distressed and distracted when he came to me. He wasn’t thinking clearly, Garazeb. I knew what he told me. That’s all. It might be a surprise to know, but I’m not infallible. I’m not omniscient.”

“I don’t fuckin’ care! Sasha should have been brought to the Jedi or to the Honour Guard. He needed trainin’!”

“That wasn’t written in his fate —”

“ _Fuck_ fate! He needed _help_ ,” Zeb snapped furiously, reaching up to disconnect the communication at once, his heart pounding against his ribs and doing its best to crack them. He almost threw the datapad at the wall before he managed to regain control of himself. His heart breaking, and his spirit sore, Zeb dragged himself to his feet and called for a droid before heading to the refresher to take care of the taste of vomit in his mouth.

Once he was done, Zeb returned to his quarters, to his sleeping mate, who’d been abandoned at such a pivotal time in his life. His face crumpled as he surged forward and dropped to his knees beside the bunk. He rested his face against his chest and curled one arm around Sasha as he rested the other against his hair, his thumb smoothing several soft strands back from his forehead.

“I will never leave,” Zeb whispered over the slow beat of his heart. He nuzzled his chest carefully, not wanting to wake him. Sasha needed as much rest as he could get after his traumatic revelation in the jungle. Zeb captured his hand and tangled their fingers together. “You’ll never have to be alone again.”


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another (early) Saturday, another update!
> 
> Looking forward to hearing what y'all think :D

Alexsandr slipped into a depressive state after his revelation in the jungle. He felt cold and hollow, exhausted. Time became meaningless when an hour felt eternal. He often couldn’t find the strength or will to get out of the bunk he shared with Garazeb, to follow the routine that made him feel alive. And when he _did_ manage to do so, combing his hair and walking to the refresher to brush his teeth drained him of all the strength and will he had. He never made it to training on such mornings. Alexsandr even found it difficult to respond to Garazeb, though he heard his whining purrs through the fog that numbed and clouded his senses, but managed something now and then: a curl of his fingers through his fur, a tip of his head against his jaw as Garazeb held him close, the ghost of a smile when his love leaned over him.

Though he never felt hungry, Alexsandr managed to eat something whenever Garazeb brought him food. He managed to bathe whenever Garazeb guided him to the refresher, and into the shower, his large hands warm and gentle as hot water cascaded over them both and pulled Sasha through the fog somewhat. Each shower seemed to bring him a little closer to the surface, a little closer to Garazeb, a little closer to himself. 

At one point or another, Mila climbed into the bunk and wrapped her arms around him.

She cried into his shoulder. 

It pulled him a little further out of the fog — enough to join her, his arms crushing her close and his chest heaving with his own tears as Mila ran a hand over his hair and choked out assurances through her own grief.

When Alexsandr found himself walking down to the mess hall one morning, tired and heavy, but functioning almost normally, he didn’t know how much time had lapsed since he’d told Garazeb about what he’d done. All he knew was the burst of euphoria that greeted him through the Force as Garazeb loped towards him at full speed and swept him into his arms, spinning him around in a wide circle and crushing him against his chest with delighted fervour. All he knew was the press of soft fur against his face as Alexsandr clung to him tightly, his arms around his neck.

The kisses that came were soft and hopeful.

Alexsandr couldn’t help responding, his frame softening around a sigh.

“Ya scared me,” Garazeb whispered against his lips.

“I’m sorry,” Alexsandr whispered back. His hands tightened around the fur in his grip. 

“Don’t be.” Garazeb shook his head. His hands came to cradle his face and Alexsandr couldn’t help relaxing into the warmth of his hands, pressing still closer. “Ya needed time to heal and process after tellin’ me all that. Ya ran from what happened for so long, Sasha. Needin’ time makes sense.”

“How long was I like that?”

“Three weeks, but it felt like months.”

“To me, it felt like forever,” Alexsandr murmured. His hands moved upwards, fingers grazing along ears that flicked and twitched beneath his touch. A tired smile curled his lips as Garazeb rumbled against him in welcome and approval. “You waited for me.”

“Of course, I did. I made a promise.” Garazeb kissed his forehead and then nuzzled his cheek gently, a soft purr vibrating through his frame. “C’mon. The others are wavin’ us over.” 

Alexsandr turned his head in the direction Garazeb had come from and saw, through his connection to the Force, the group crowded around a large table, cups of caf and laden plates in front of them. Not just the Spectres, but his sister and her partners as well. The thought of approaching the table and dealing with such a large group of people was exhausting, but he couldn’t refuse Garazeb, not when it made his love so relieved to see him out and about instead of curled up and silent in their bunk. Alexsandr let his connection to the Force slip closed to spare himself from being overwhelmed and wrapped an arm around the Lasat to encourage him to lead.

Garazeb pulled him straight down on his lap as soon as he settled into his chair and Alexsandr might have felt embarrassed if he wasn’t so tired. He relaxed into the welcome strength and warmth instead and welcomed the press of a cup of caf into his hands, the heat travelling up through his wrists like a balm. The first taste made him sigh with happiness, his hands tightening around the cup.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Bridger said.

Surprisingly, he didn’t sound sarcastic.

Alexsandr tipped his head at the boy, but said nothing, focusing instead on the caf in his hands and the Lasat nuzzling the back of his neck. 

“You had us worried.” That was Hera. Alexsandr heard her lean forward in her chair and he could almost imagine her lekku sliding forward over her shoulders, pulled down with their own weight. “Feeling up for some food?”

“I could eat.” Alexsandr tipped his head at her as Zan left the table at her instruction — those heavy, slow footfalls a blatant indication. “And I apologise.”

“Eh. We all have our own crap to deal with. There isn’t a person on this base that hasn’t been hurt in some shape or form. Some just struggle more than others and that’s alright.” Alexsandr could almost hear his commander waving a dismissive hand. “You’re safe and sound. That’s all that matters.”

Alexsandr offered her a tired smile, relieved to hear that his unfortunate lapse in health wasn’t being held against him. Considering he’d been such a recent addition to the _Ghost_ crew. But it was still a welcome distraction when Zan returned with a plate of sweet-smelling fruit and a bread roll fresh from the oven. And it was a surprise when she clapped him on the shoulder before retaking her seat. Alexsandr couldn’t help feeling touched.

He hadn’t thought she’d cared about him. 

Not even after he’d joined the mechanics in the hangar when planetside. 

Alexsandr ate slowly, starting with the bread roll — which he cut in half with care and slathered with the butter that he found on the side of his plate when searching for the knife. The buttered bread melted in his mouth and he sighed in pleasure, feeling the fresh crust crackle between his fingers. The bread carried hints of spices and herbs. Combined with the melting butter, it was exquisite.

“Good, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Alexsandr confirmed with a smile, once he’d swallowed his mouthful.

“It’s an old Besalisk recipe,” Zan explained with some pride. “Loved it when I was growing up.”

“Zan makes it for us all the time,” Mila added with a smile in her voice. Alexsandr heard his sister lean in her chair, closer to her girlfriend. He could almost hear her head turning as she said warmly, “Yours is better, though.”

“You bake?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. Bread’s the only thing I can do,” Zan answered with a note of discomfort in her voice. He heard her large frame shift with it. “I’m not great with cakes and things.”

“We all have our skills,” Hera said with a conspiratorial grin in her voice. “Kanan’s the one that makes the good stuff on our ship. I can’t cook at all.”

“You make cocktails,” Wren said with a laugh. “That’s better than food.”

“Hey,” Jarrus said with mock offense.

Alexsandr couldn’t help the small bubble of laughter that escaped him. It surprised him when the laugh was answered across the table, Wren and Bridger cracking up together. It brought another startled laugh out of him and one from Garazeb, the deep bark of his laughter sending a jolt of sensation through him. It wasn’t long until the entire table was laughing for one reason or another, jokes and smart comments tumbling out from one moment to the next. And for the first time in a long time, Alexsandr felt like this wasn’t just a collection of his colleagues. It was more like a family, and that thought hurt as much as it made him smile. 

After breakfast with his _family_ , returning to his usual routine was easier than he’d expected.

Returning to the training room with Jarrus and Bridger was easier than he’d expected.

Though Alexsandr didn’t have an immediate sense of his progress after telling Garazeb about what happened to his mother, Jarrus seemed satisfied that something within him had shifted as he’d stood opposite Bridger and waited for the Padawan to hurl the first stone at him. And slowly, but surely, his shield started to last longer during his sessions — one moment and then two, and then three. Until a stone bounced off his shield one morning and careened off to the side, clattering off the wall and splitting in two. The shock of it was so sudden that Alexsandr felt his control of the Force slip through his fingers, his shield blinking out as Bridger whooped and cheered at the other side of the room.

For _him_.

Bridger was cheering _for him_.

“Well done, Alexsandr,” Jarrus said warmly, a bright smile in his voice. “I knew you could do it.”

“Again.” Alexsandr took a breath to chase the shock and excitement from his veins and gathered his spark once more, watching the strength of it pooling around his hands as he nodded at Bridger in encouragement. “Until I don’t miss a single one.”

Alexsandr trained for a further two hours, pushing himself to his limits, sweat pouring down his face with the effort of controlling the power in his circuit and holding it in place in front of him. He didn’t stop until he was certain he could deflect an incoming object at will. Bridger hesitated once or twice, unsure whether he should keep going, and Alexsandr was relieved when Jarrus just gave them an encouraging nod from the side-lines. When Alexsandr left the training room finally, it was with soaring spirits and his mentor in tow, sharing a jocular exchange as Bridger darted ahead of them. 

When he and Jarrus returned to Base One, Alexsandr took a few minutes to shower in the refresher and grab his toolbelt from his quarters before heading down to the hangar, a spring in his step as he took his orders from the chief mechanic and hastened to get to work.

“You look happy,” Zan said from above, the glowing circuit that comprised her head peeking out from the edge of the near-ruined ship he’d been assigned to. “Training going well then? Mila mentioned some improvements.”

“Yes,” Alexsandr answered easily, but he didn’t go into detail.

Now that he was in the hangar, Alexsandr wasn’t interested in talking; there was work to be done. He just saluted Zan with two fingers before climbing into the interior, squeezing himself past a crumpled section with some difficulty, his trousers snagging on a jagged piece of metal. Alexsandr cursed under his breath and otherwise ignored the tear down the leg.

Between Zan and Alexsandr, and two other mechanics assigned to the ship, a decent amount of progress was made as one crumpled piece after another was removed, heated, and hammered out before being soldered and riveted back into place with care and precision. It was easier to move around the interior when Alexsandr emerged as the sun was setting, his senses aware of the shift in an almost abstract way, the recognition whispering through his circuit as he shoved the last of his tools back into his belt.

It was a job well done, if still unfinished.

Once the outer shell was in better shape, the finer aspects could be tackled with greater ease. 

Alexsandr was eager to reach that part of the repairs; it was the part he excelled at. But he was proud of the work he’d done so far, knowing his efforts were helping to get ships back out into space, back out to where the ships were needed most: running supplies, shooting down Imperial fighters, and just...helping people that needed help. 

Alexsandr was running a proud hand over the smooth hull when Zan dropped down from the top of the ship, grunting as her knees bent to take the impact with the floor. She straightened beside him with a crack of her joints and clapped him on the shoulder with one of her hands, grumbling roughly, “C’mon. Let’s have a drink back at the _Maria_. I could use one after all that.” 

“Sure,” Alexsandr said with some surprise. He pushed a hand through his hair, and grumbled as it fell back into his face almost immediately, despite the sweat dampening his locks. That was when he realised he’d have to get something to tie it back with at some point in the future. Still thinking about his hair, Alexsandr gave Zan a distracted smile. “I’d like that.”

Zan snorted and walked off.

Pushing his hair back from his face once more, Alexsandr followed her glowing circuit across the hangar and into the old VCX-150. Soon finding himself seated in the galley, he listened to Zan lumbering around as she retrieved bottles of something alcoholic. He heard the crack and hiss of the caps being removed and welcomed the press of one into his hands as Zan settled at the other side of the table, the seat creaking beneath her weight.

“You and Mila are getting along better,” Zan said after she took a swig, her tone innocent.

“Yes,” Alexsandr said slowly, pausing before he could take a sip of his own drink. He lowered his hand and set his drink down on the table, his shoulders tightening. “This isn’t just a drink between friends then.”

“No,” Zan confirmed. “We need to talk.”

“Right.”

“I know about what happened. I know all of it. Not just...fragments, like most of the Spectres.”

“I know that. Mila told me.”

“Right. Well. I know it broke her and I helped her put the pieces back together.”

“It broke both of us,” Alexsandr said stiffly, his jaw clenching. 

“I know that. Look. You’re not unlikeable,” Zan said quietly, the glow of her head tilting, indicating she was scrutinising her drink. “You’re even starting to feel somewhat like family, but Mila is precious to me. I saw the mess she was when we were teenagers. I know how terrified she was of the Jedi after what happened. It took a _long_ time for her to overcome the panic she felt whenever the Jedi appeared in the news broadcasts during the Clone Wars. And if you _ever_ put her through something like that again...there isn’t a force in this universe that will stop me from tearing you to pieces. Do you understand?”

“If I ever put her through something like that again...I wouldn’t put up a fight.”

“Then we understand each other.” Zan gestured to his drink with hers. “Now we drink and pretend this conversation didn’t happen. Because Taris and Mila are mounting the ramp as we speak.”

Alexsandr reached for his bottle and took a long pull of the cold beverage, swallowing several times, almost draining the bottle in the process. He welcomed the heat that prickled across his face a few moments later, the strong Besalisk cider sweeping through his veins without food to hinder the process. Alexsandr wasn’t surprised when Zan deposited a second one in front of him as Taris and Mila reached the galley, laughing about one thing or another. 

Alexsandr didn’t know when he lost count of the bottles he drank with his sister and her partners, but he knew when he’d had enough. Too much. Far too much. He knew when his lips started to numb, his tongue tripping over his speech. He knew when his fingers and toes started tingling. Most assuredly, Alexsandr knew when he tried to get up and fell back down into his seat immediately, a laugh bubbling up from his chest before he tried again.

He kissed Mila’s forehead and tugged on her locks before stumbling out of the ship.

Even using the Force to guide his journey, Alexsandr made a few wrong turns before he managed to find the door to his own quarters, his fingers fumbling with the control panel for a moment or so before the door hissed open at last and let him in. His skin feeling too hot and prickly, Alexsandr started pulling at his clothes, almost falling over himself as he tried to pull his torn trousers off before kicking his boots off.

It took a moment or two to find his balance, to finish undressing, but he managed.

Naked now, Alexsandr crawled onto the bunk and flopped onto the pillows, a sigh of happiness escaping him as that scent filtered into each breath he took. That scent. The one scent that mattered in the entire universe. Zeb. His Garazeb. His love, his darling, his mate. A chuckle escaped him as he shifted against the blankets, but it turned into a moan as his cock rubbed against the soft fabric, sending a burst of want through him as that word repeated and morphed in his head.

_Mate._

_Mating._

Alexsandr shivered at the thought and his cock stiffened abruptly, leaving him woozy, and relieved that he was in the bunk. He pressed his face deeper into the pillows and inhaled. He and Garazeb hadn’t mated. Not in the truest sense of the word. But he wanted to. How Alexsandr wanted to. His fingers curled around the nearest pillow as his hips hitched against the blankets, sending another burst of want through him as memories of Garazeb flooded through his mind. Memories of muscle flexing beneath his hand and a strained growl vibrating against his lips as Alexsandr trailed kisses up his neck and palmed him. Memories of large lips searing heat across his middle, fangs catching his skin and pinching, bruising, making him squirm and clutch at the back of his head. 

His hips jerked forward.

Alexsandr, his face hot and prickling, his frame trembling, didn’t resist the temptation.

* * *

A familiar scent assailed his senses without warning when Zeb stepped into his quarters and it threatened to short-circuit his brain. His mate moaned. His gaze snapped upwards to see Sasha gripping the pillows, pale hips rocking. A growl of approval rumbled up from his chest at the sight.

Sasha moaned again. His hips stilled. When he turned over, his skin was flushed down to his sternum and strands of his hair clung to his face with sweat. His trembling legs akimbo, and his cock hard against his belly, Sasha was captivating.

“Garasheb,” Sasha whispered.

Zeb blinked in surprise.

“Zeb. _Fuck_.” Sasha’s flush deepened. “I meant _Zeb_.”

Zeb couldn’t stop the fond laugh that burst out of his chest as he realised what happened. What was still happening. He inhaled deeply, and caught the scent of alcohol buried beneath the tantalising scent of arousal and need that emanated from his mate in thick waves. His own arousal was forgotten as Zeb moved closer to the bunk and climbed in beside his mate, guiding him onto his lap, where Sasha sat happily, his added weight a welcome comfort. 

“You’ve been drinkin’.” 

“Jus’ a little,” Sasha whispered feverishly, leaning forward and finding purchase below his pecs with eager hands, those long fingers spreading to feel as much muscle as possible — something that amused Zeb again and again. He squirmed on his lap, his shoulders relaxing around a pleased sigh. The tails of his blindfold tumbled down over his shoulder, the tips sweeping across vulnerable skin. Sasha moaned in obvious pleasure, his fingers digging in. “That felt good. _You_ feel good. So good. Fuck me?”

“Not like this,” Zeb said gently, his expression softening. He stroked a thumb over the curve of his hip. “It wouldn’t be right. Ya can use me to get off...but we’re not goin’ further than we’ve gone already, Sasha. You’re goin’ to be sober when we fuck for the first time.”

Sasha pouted.

It was adorable.

Zeb couldn’t help sliding a hand up to tangle in his hair and tugging gently, pulling him down into a kiss that pulled a sigh of contentment from him as Sasha tumbled down against his chest with a warm laugh. He kissed Sasha slowly, but deeply, lapping into his mouth with his textured tongue until the taste of cider disappeared and all that remained was the sweet taste of his mate, who shivered and squirmed atop him as those eager hands roamed in all directions. The squirm of those uncoordinated hips sent waves of sensation up from his groin as the welcome weight of Sasha shifted against the sensitive rim of his sheath. Zeb growled into his mouth and Sasha moaned.

A chuckle rumbled up his throat as Sasha started pulling at his battlesuit with clumsy, fumbling fingers. He broke the kiss with a smile and reached to give him a hand as his mate grew frustrated with the fastenings hidden behind strategic seams. It wasn’t long until his mate was pulling at his shoulders, encouraging him up, and pushing his battlesuit down his arms, the material catching at his wrists for a moment before Zeb managed to shuck it free.

A pleased noise escaped Sasha as he buried his face in his fur. 

Zeb cradled the back of his head.

“Smells so good.” Sasha nosed up his neck and kissed the base of his ear. “ _So_ good.”

“No one else thinks so,” Zeb murmured into his mutton chops, winding his arms around his mate and holding him close, feeling the beat of his heart through his chest.

“People are stupid.” Sasha snuggled closer. “ _But_ that jus’ means _more for me_.”

Zeb almost choked on a snort of amusement as Sasha started squirming faster, one eager hand trailing down his side and disappearing beneath the edge of his battlesuit. He shivered as Sasha rubbed at the rim of his sheath with trembling fingers, sliding through his growing slick and sending ripples of sensation through his body, causing his muscles to contract and release with pleasure. Zeb couldn’t help sliding a hand down to grip his arse, retracting his claws to avoid breaking the skin. 

“I want…” Sasha shivered in his grasp, trailing off with a moan. “I want to _taste_.”

“Ya heard what I said. We’re not doin’ more than we’ve done.”

“What if I said we were shelebrating,” Sasha whispered into his ear, his lips trailing kisses along the thin and sensitive skin there, causing his ear to flick and twitch beneath his attention. Sasha chuckled in fond amusement and then continued determinedly, “Because I _did_ it.”

“Did what?”

“The shield!”

“Ya did?” Zeb couldn’t help the growling groan that escaped him as those fingers found the head of his cock as it began to emerge from his sheath and _teased_. His hips jerked. His grip tightened enough to make Sasha gasp, the fingers of one hand tightening in his fur without warning. It sent another wave of sensation through him. “M’so proud of ya.”

“Proud enough to let me suck?”

“Sasha…”

“You said I had to be sober when we fuck. You didn’t mention sucking.”

“M’pretty big…”

“Huge,” Sasha agreed feverishly, his face flushed and eager as he straddled Zeb, his kiss-bruised lips parted. His tongue darted out to leave a glistening trail of saliva across his bottom lip. Sasha ran his fingers down the length of his cock as it emerged fully, hot and stiff and full between them. “And I want it. _Please_.” 

“Ya won’t regret it later,” Zeb asked through a sigh even as he shivered with pleasure, crushing his mate closer to him.

“No,” Sasha whispered before abandoning his ear to brush a kiss against his lips. “I swear.”

“Alright.” Zeb kissed him quickly, his hand still tangled in his hair, holding his mate still for a moment. “Ya can taste me. But no deep-throatin’. M’too big for Humans to take that far without practice. Ya understand?”

Sasha answered him with an eager nod and a deep kiss before squirming out of his grasp and grabbing a pillow. He tossed the pillow on the floor beside the bunk and scrambled down to kneel on it. Impatiently, Sasha tugged on his ankle with both hands.

Chuckling fondly, Zeb scooted to the edge of the bunk and arranged himself carefully, framing his mate with his knees. He laid back and hitched his hips upwards as Sasha grabbed his battlesuit and pulled it down past his hips, his knees, his ankles, tossing it aside with an eager hum. Zeb braced himself on his elbows then and watched as Sasha shuffled forward carefully, a shaking breath escaping him as his hands slid along his thighs, ruffling his fur. 

For several moments, Sasha just ruffled his fur, seeming distracted.

But then he leaned forward and nuzzled against his thigh gently, a soft whimper escaping him.

Zeb couldn’t help the hitch in his breath as Sasha scented such an intimate place, couldn’t help reaching down to smooth that long hair back from his face, couldn’t help whispering words of encouragement. The smile Sasha gave him then was dazed and adoring. A sigh escaped him when Sasha shifted his head and his warm breath ghosted along the length of his cock. His spines pulsed at the stimulation and released another wave of slick. His knot throbbed with eagerness at the base of his cock. Though his hand remained in that dishevelled hair, Zeb didn’t push his mate to take a quicker pace — he just sat back and luxuriated in the tender and curious exploration. 

His lips were soft when Sasha kissed the head of his cock.

Zeb shivered.

Sasha kissed the head again and then changed his angle before beginning to trail soft kisses down the length of his cock. Each brush of his lips against his spines earned a strangled gasp and each brush of his fingertips around the faint swell of his knot made him whine, made his toes curl and his claws dig into the stone floor. Slowly, almost carefully, Sasha pressed the flat of his tongue against his cock and dragged it upwards, the smooth and wet muscle exquisite as it slid over his spines.

Zeb fisted the blanket with one hand. 

It tore in his grasp.

Sasha released a satisfied chuckle, sending puffs of breath across his spines even as he dragged his tongue up to the tip, pushing it against that sensitive spot just below the head. His mouth was hot when he drew the head between his lips finally, sucking lightly, a soft hum escaping him. 

The sudden vibrations down the length of his cock pulled a strained growl from Zeb, his cock throbbing, hot and eager between his lips. His hips hitched upwards before he managed to get himself under control. His chest starting to heave, and his fangs pinching his lip, Zeb stared down at his mate as the first three inches of his cock disappeared slowly, engulfed within that exquisite heat.

Sasha did as he’d been told and slid his mouth back up before the head of his cock could brush the back of his throat. He didn’t seem to mind the restrictions, his head beginning to bob a little clumsily, but eagerly, his lips tightening as much possible around his girth. His hair — and the white tails of his blindfold — shifted back and forth with his movements, brushing over a shoulder, a thigh. Sasha moaned with honest pleasure each time his head sank low, seeming to appreciate the weight of his cock on his tongue and the stretch of his jaw.

Zeb shifted his hand and rubbed his thumb across his face carefully, feeling the stretch of his jaw and marvelling at his dedication. He hadn’t had a partner that appreciated sucking him off in so long, nor one so devoted to making _him_ feel good. Not since Lasan. Not since he was the Captain of the Honour Guard and a long night with an admiring noble after a gala or a quick fumble with a civilian he’d picked up at a cantina was the height of his pleasure. Sasha was the first in so long. A soft whine escaped him as he stared down at his face, at the familiar blindfold stretching across the bridge of his nose, wishing he could see that stardust gaze again. He wished he could see those pupils blown wide with pleasure. He wished he could see those lashes fluttering. Part of him felt _robbed_. His vision blurring without warning, Zeb let his head fall back against the mattress, his hand shifting back to tangle in that hair he loved all over again. 

Sasha pulled away, surprising him as he whispered worriedly, “Garazeb?”

“S’fine,” Zeb rasped. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine. I can feel it.” His voice turned hesitant. “Have I...done something wrong?”

“No,” Zeb growled. He sat up abruptly, pulling his mate closer, cradling him with both hands in an attempt to reassure him. “You’re wonderful. M’just bein’ an idiot. M’just bein’ selfish.”

“You’re neither of those things,” Sasha argued. His brow furrowed. His blindfold crinkled a fraction. His fingers rose to graze the ridge of his cheek with care. “You...miss something. Want something. You’re...grieving.”

“M’not _grievin’_.” Zeb captured his hand and squeezed. “It’s not like that. It’s stupid.”

“It isn’t.” Sasha turned his hand over in his grasp and squeezed back. “Tell me.”

“Ya won’t like it.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sasha said quietly, lacing their fingers together. “I still want to know.”

“Ya said before about wishin’ to see me.” Zeb squeezed his hand again. “It was like that.”

“Oh.” Sasha touched his blindfold with trembling fingers. His voice tightened. His scent shifted as his eagerness, his happiness, waned and Zeb wanted to punch himself in the face as Sasha added softly, “We don’t have to keep going, if it isn’t pleasant to be reminded. I know it’s not...ideal.”

“Don’t ever think like that.” Zeb pulled his hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss against the palm before tugging his mate into his arms, hauling him up onto his lap, crushing him against his chest. “You’re perfect as is. It was just a passin’ thought. That’s all.”

Between one heartbeat and another, Zeb shuffled them further on to the bunk and beneath the blankets, holding Sasha against him all the while. He settled them so that their faces were just inches apart as he ran a possessive hand over the curve of his back. Soft fingers curled into his fur between them. 

Several beats of silence passed before Sasha said quietly, the conversation seeming to have pulled him closer to sobriety, his words clearer, and his tone soft and serious, “I get it. Missing them when we’re intimate. I would miss them too, were our positions reversed. I _do_ miss seeing them.”

The fingers curled in his fur moved up to graze the ridge of his cheek.

“I miss them all the time.”

“M’sorry,” Zeb murmured.

“Don’t be.” Sasha pulled his hand back before shuffling forward and pressing his face into his shoulder, sighing. “Moments like these were bound to happen at some point. Some people get a thrill from being looked at during sex. I learned that early, as a cadet. Some people would start _pulling_ , if I wasn’t looking up at them when I sucked them off.”

“Ya let them do that?”

“I liked the roughness.” Sasha shrugged. “But that was before Onderon.”

“Is it alright when I…?”

“If I didn’t like it…I wouldn’t let it continue.” Sasha inhaled several mouthfuls of his scent and relaxed into his embrace, sliding his own arm around Zeb and winding his fingers around a fistful of his fur. His thigh shifted and his calf slipped around the back of his knee, tugging with surprising insistence. “You _tug_ , and I feel safe and wanted. I feel loved. I don’t feel like I’m in danger. You don’t _pull_. You’ve never done it to hurt me. Not like _him_.”

Zeb answered the tugging motion at his leg without thinking, his movements instinctive, and rolled Sasha onto his back. He let his heavier frame settle over his mate, letting his weight comfort him as requested. He nuzzled against one mutton chop, a purr rumbling up from his chest. He smoothed a gentle hand over his hair, brushing a few loose locks back from his forehead. Zeb found himself murmuring, “I would never be like him.”

“I know.” Sasha pressed his face against his neck. Two hands fisted the fur at his back now and those strong arms squeezed him closer. “I know that. You’re nothing like him. I realised that when we crashed into that cave. He’d never have lowered his weapon. He’d never have taken care of me. He’d never have been _gentle_. He’d have torn me apart on the spot as soon as he realised I couldn’t fight back and taken the meteorite for himself before climbing out to wait for someone to pick him up.”

“I’m...I’m glad it was me.” Zeb feathered a kiss against his hairline and then lower, his lips brushing against the edge of the blindfold. He pressed their brows together then. “I know things were hard. Will still be hard at times. I know I’ll do stupid shit. Make mistakes. I know there’ll be hurt feelings sometimes. S’not somethin’ couples can escape. But I promise that I’ll work hard to make waitin’ for me worth it.”

“I should be the one making promises,” Sasha muttered. His warm breath ghosted across his lips and rippled through the fur on his face. Sasha loosened his grip on his fur and ran a hand between his shoulders, ruffling his fur. “You’ve been so good to me, too good to me. I’ll work hard to make loving me worth it.”

Zeb felt his heart twist hard in his chest upon hearing those words, remembering how devoted his mate looked as he’d knelt between the spread of his thighs earlier, how eager he’d been to make him feel good. He kissed Sasha abruptly, surprising himself with its roughness, and earning a startled noise from his mate, who took a moment or so to gather his wits and respond with his usual eager anticipation. Zeb couldn’t help the rumble that escaped him as one thigh slid along his and settled at his hip, the calf that pressed against his arse doing its best to pull him still closer.

“Let me make amends,” Zeb whispered between rough kisses that left Sasha breathless and shivering, clutching at him with desperate hands. 

Without waiting for a reply, Zeb shuffled downwards. He settled between familiar thighs and went to town.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop in on [tumblr](https://rachaelkelleher.tumblr.com/) or [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/pocket_scribbles/)


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